HetaOni: Final Loop
by Sunruner
Summary: The nations of the Second Loop survived and now the world needs answers. They have to know what happened and why it ended the way it did, and to get that they have to read the journal and figure out the final chapter for themselves. What did Italy know, and what could he never tell them? Recovery is up!
1. Japan Can't Scream

**Eden, All Faith is Lost (Italy), The Decision of the Love (Germany), Soldiers (Magic Idiot).**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

Japan Can't Scream

* * *

><p>They were reading the journal, page by page, line by line.<p>

They had to understand what had happened, they had to know why it ended like that.

Just like he'd said, Italy had torn out the pages that gave the journal its power over time. England had confirmed it after their journal was taken and destroyed: there was no way of undoing what had been done.

"_'Everyone is sleeping now. I can hear them breathing...'" _Korea's voice was a weak, breathless thing fluttering down from the podium: like a dying bird falling amongst scattered leaves. Japan didn't wonder why there were tears running down his brother's face, or think too hard about the tremors visibly running through the other nation. Japan just kept his seat with his arms folded and tried desperately hard to keep breathing.

"Japan-" Breathe, breathe. Standing up was not required as he spoke and they had been here for hours- all the nations of the world. "Japan would like to request a motion."

Where was Austria? Oh- there he was. He'd slipped out of sight while Korea was speaking, or perhaps Japan just couldn't see the tall brunette very clearly.

"State your motion." His accented voice: that too felt very far away.

"A recess of some five or six hours." Not enough time, but how could he ask for more? To change clothes, to eat- could he eat? To sleep, perchance without dreams...

"Is there a second?"

"Greece seconds it." The deep voice at Japan's right, the solid presence that had not moved or tried to get his attention as the hours slipped by and the reading dragged on.

"By show of hands, those in favour? ...Those opposed? ...The motion passes, we will reconvene in six hours, breakfast will be served before we resume at eight in the morning." It was two in the morning. They should have kept reading but Japan knew he was already long past his limit for today.

Japan pushed his chair back without comment. He stood without comment. He did not look at Greece and he saw China's shoes but did not make eye-contact. He left with the hope that he would be followed, and when only one set of footsteps kept within a few paces of him Japan automatically moved through the building towards his destination: the room he had kept during the original conference. The red carpeting mocked him, the creams and golds of the walls were glaring.

"Not that door." Greece's voice was just as deep and controlled as before. Japan stopped in front of the room he'd kept and tried to understand the phrase. He touched his pocket briefly and discovered the answer: after everything that had happened, he had lost the card-key. "This way."

He followed the tall brunet down another carpeted hall, past a cracked vase of tall fake flowers. His vision did not clear up as he followed Greece's blurry outline: it just got worse with the smell of cleaning agents and abandoned food trays. Voices drifted through the building but he couldn't translate their meaning just now. Greece was being kind to him; he was speaking the broken Japanese he had learned over the years.

The card whispered through the reader and there was the sound of the door's mechanism unlatching. Japan flinched without meaning to, quickly moving inside as Greece held the door open for him to go ahead.

"Lock it." He didn't want to say it, he knew it wasn't necessary but it had to be done. You always had to lock the door behind you, always. Every single time. Whenever you forgot to lock the door, the Thi-

No.

No he wouldn't think of it.

"It's locked." Thank you, thank you, thank you... "Turn around." No, no, no... "Japan."

He couldn't see. Japan kept his hands down where they were, aware that his fingernails were biting into the palm of one hand while the other was resting heavily on the hilt of his sword. He should take the weapon off, but he couldn't make his hands move. Undo the clasp, remove the belt, set the blade aside. He couldn't do it. He wanted to but he couldn't breathe.

"...May I touch you?" Japan did not like to be touched, he did not enjoy having people run up and hug him, or put their hands on his face or arms. He did not like standing too close to strangers.

"..._Please."_ Greece was not a stranger, Greece knew to ask first. A strong, secure presence standing behind him, powerful without being overbearing, lingering out of sight but keeping itself in mind. Japan sensed the hand before it touched his hair, felt the fingertips stroke his cheek as the black strands were pulled away and gathered behind his ear.

Contact made you aware of boundaries, it told you what was inside and what was out: his insides needed air and Japan's eyes blinked suddenly to push away the outside tears. The sound his lungs made as he inhaled was like a gasp and a sob mixed together, his eyes open again and blurring just as badly as a touch on his shoulder made his body turn.

"You're shaking." He couldn't see. He blinked and all he could make out was the blue of Greece's shirt and the brown sleeves of his jacket. Warm hands cupped his cheeks and thick thumbs brushed back and forth under his eyes, gathering up the water as it fell. "Breathe."

"_No..._" His lungs hurt, one breath wasn't enough. He'd have to do it again before the pain in his chest grew. But that was just one kind of pain, the other one was much worse. "_No..._"

"Breathe."

"_I'll scream..._" To weep such tears was disgraceful, to lose his voice was disgraceful, to know that he would scream if he brought enough air into his lungs was incomprehensible. His mind asked him what screaming now would accomplish, but his swollen heart didn't care. He would scream, and scream, and scream if he could.

"Then scream."

_"No..._" It was better not to breathe.

Greece leaned in close to him and Japan felt warp lips brush over his forehead. He felt small, his hands slowly creeping up as he tried to stop the shaking, grasping the hands holding his face and pressing on them so they wouldn't move. He still couldn't see; there were so many tears that Greece's hands were growing wet with them as he kept on trying to wipe them all away.

Japan's feet moved a little on the carpet, his shoulders coming forward to try and find contact. He didn't like touching, but if he stood alone now he would scream and the sound of it would break him into tiny pieces, his own breath would scatter him. He couldn't get as close as he wanted to be, but Greece's touch on his face didn't go away and he felt the caress on his forehead change into a nuzzle that moved back into his hair as he came up.

But then it stopped. And it was sudden. And Japan felt one warm hand leave his face and that arm curl around his head slowly. There was a gentle touch on the back of his head, Greece's fingers pawing at his unwashed hair before Japan thought he felt something strange. His body seized up and he couldn't stop Greece from saying it:

"...There's blood in your hair."

Italy-

-_No._

He pressed one hand over his mouth and then used the other to help clamp it down. He pushed his head down under Greece's chin, masking the blood under the smell of mint and olive branches. He'd thought the tears had been unmanageable before but now they were just streams of distress pouring from his eyes. Greece's shirt was already damp and Japan couldn't do anything to bring himself under control.

But his lover understood, somehow, and just enough to know what to do. Japan couldn't have told him what he needed even if he'd known, so when Greece's hand fell away from his hair and his arm looped over Japan's shoulders instead, that was good. And feeling his lover's other arm hook under his shoulder and cross his back tightly was just as good. But it was nothing more than that, it was only temporary relief: it couldn't get beyond the point of _'good'_. There was too much bad in the way of it, too much blood.

_'Italy, Italy, Italy... why?'_

"You're angry." Anger? Was this anger? No, no this was nothing like oranges and eggs; this wasn't UN payments and hidden fees. "Scream, Japan, no one will judge." Which was not the same as saying '_no one will hear'_; why did that give him comfort? Not much, but somehow knowing that someone would hear him if he screamed... that was good.

Greece was taller than him, it had never been a problem before and he didn't know why it would be one now. Japan pressed his face against his lover's throat and then reached up with both arms to wrap them around his neck. Greece's embrace grew tighter and it told him just how much of himself there was, how he wasn't physically coming apart the way he was on the inside. He wasn't lifted up at all, but he stretched until he was cheek-to-cheek with Greece, his lips hovering just below the other man's ear.

"I need to forget..." He'd already forgotten so much, he probably didn't know half of what he needed to in order to understand what had happened to them. But what he did know, what Japan could remember, he had to get rid of. "So much blood, I need to forget his face..." Even when he closed his eyes the tears kept coming.

'_Ital__y__..._ _Veneziano...'_

"Then think of mine instead." He liked that alternative. It was hard to pull his face away so he could see Greece again but he was helped along by the lips touching his throat, the gentle caresses that hardly qualified as kisses. His eyes had barely opened by the time he felt a light touch under his chin, leaning up slowly to take the comforts Greece gave him, catching kisses like manna from the sky.

He curled his hands in the collar of Greece's jacket, images flickering through his mind that didn't belong there. He hadn't seen the events described in the journal, they hadn't happened to him yet, or near him, and Italy's voice refrained from giving details throughout- why could he see those things? Why could he remember Germany dying in the underground? Why did he remember the horror of being trapped, all alone, in the music room?

Japan didn't object to Greece's large hands undoing the buckle around his waist, his sword dropping to the floor with a thud.

The Italy of the notebook wasn't yet the Italy they'd seen in the mansion.

He let his hands fall from his lover's face just so Greece could finish removing the blood-stained jacket Japan had been wearing for days. Maybe longer. He didn't know. He didn't want to remember.

The notebook's words were too hopeful in their red ink, too full of life instead of poisoned by despair.

Kisses were interrupted by the need to find more skin, Japan losing his shirt up over his head before he convinced Greece to do the same. But then, again, there was something bad.

The warm hands running up his exposed sides stopped abruptly when their touch brought pain instead of comfort. He didn't understand the ache in his body until he saw his lover's face again and the troubled look in his dark green eyes. Japan looked down at himself and...

The shame of it _just_-

Bruises, cuts, shallow marks, chafing sores and weeping gouges. The mansion had done something to weaken them, to make them less than nations. What was this body that had shirked the weight of its country? What were these arms all scratched and weak? Greece reached to touch the bruise spreading down his back that curled around his ribs and Japan flinched away- how could he not? If his emotions were all beyond his control, then perhaps it made sense that his body was all broken and wrong.

"I'm sorry..." How could this have happened to him?

"Don't say that..." Could he have not done something to prevent this? The journal itself confirmed it: Japan had dismissed clear, direct warnings from a close friend. He should have done so much more than just get himself killed. Killed over and over again... "Come closer." Like this? How could he do that? Was Greece blind to what was in front of him?

"_Look at me..._" Look what had _happened _to him...

"I am." And there was a gentle touch on his cheek to confirm it, a soft brush of fingertips moving back around his ear, fingers tangling in his hair as Japan closed his eyes and let Greece tell him, without speaking, that everything was alright now. That he was safe now. That they were all, but one, okay now.

It was a lie but it was a good lie. When mixed with the kisses and the touches, being told everything was okay was a good lie. It let him slip into a place of comfort, out of the memories. It was an escape, an escape that led to freedom-

'_Why__...__?__'_

-freedom for some, maybe...

* * *

><p>Greece didn't wake up the way he wanted to, but he understood that that was probably how things were going to be for the next little while.<p>

There was no enigmatic, worldly little nation next to him on the bed. Greece usually slept deeply but last night had been troublesome, and today he woke up at the sound of the suite's shower turning on. The clock said five-thirty and he was vaguely sure that waking up before six was a crime in his country... But he timed Japan's shower just the same. Greece decided that there was nothing to worry about so long as the other nation turned off the water before thirty minutes had elapsed: his lover usually only needed a few minutes of water, half an hour would be unusual.

Just like the unusual tears. And the unusual touches. None of that was like him.

But Japan could be coaxed into touching: by subtle remarks, fleeting glances, close proximity. There were signs to his personality that indicated when to touch, when not. A tilt of the head that asked _'do you like me?',_ a turn of the lips that begged _'kiss me',_ or, his favourite; the complete lack of direct acknowledgement that invariably meant _'I love you, please stay with me.'._

Japan was sunlight shining on a white wall. The wall itself was always the same no matter how you looked at or measured it, the white paint was engineered not to fade or peel, the foundation it was built on wouldn't fall or crack under any circumstances. But the light moved across it in smooth, beautiful ways. You never saw the same sun-sets, the same afternoon shadows, not quite, but you recognized them just the same. Greece didn't know what the sun-rises would look like: he always slept right through those.

But Japan could be brought to tears too: radioactive fall-out, having every bone in his body shattered, being left unable to feed himself or speak with his own voice for years after the war... Japan could be brought to tears, but he had to walk through valleys of starvation and death first. You had to damage something in him, something valuable, something vulnerable. It couldn't be his integrity- he'd defend that with his life. And it couldn't be his life either, because he'd forfeit it for something he truly believed in.

Someone, some_thing_, in that journal had found one of those vulnerable points in Japan's wall. And then that Thing had painted it bright red. That Thing had changed all the colours of his light...

Japan's shower took twenty-five minutes. It was another fifteen before the island nation stepped out of the bathroom, gauze wrapped around his arm and tied over his chest. Greece closed his eyes again to doze as his partner made a quiet call to the front desk about having his room unlocked so he could access his spare clothes.

The uniform from last night was still bloody, its pieces scattered on the floor. When the hotel service arrived Japan ordered the soiled clothes bundled up as they were and returned to his suite. Greece didn't ask why, it felt obvious: he wanted to forget but he couldn't let go of the memories.

"Last night didn't help much, did it?" Greece only spoke once the seven-o'clock hour came around. Japan had been slow getting dressed, methodical in his grooming where usually he was trim and efficient. His lover was seated on the edge of the bed, lacing up his boots when the silence was finally broken. Japan's hands went still just at the end of the double-knot he was tying, Greece didn't have to be watching him to know this: he just didn't hear the final sigh of the nylon as the strands were pulled.

"...I'm sorry, no." He'd thought not. It was unusual for Japan to curl up close to him like that, to repeatedly wake them both up throughout the night...

It was even rarer for Greece himself to have nightmares. He usually never remembered his dreams.

"You don't have to go to the reading today." The next part of the journal would be read aloud, starting in an hour. "No one will judge you."

"I would judge me." A pause, and slender fingers finished tying the knot. "When I hear the words, I-" See the pictures? See all the things not actually written on the page?

Yes, Greece understood that.

He'd never seen the mansion, and Greece had no intention of ever going to check it out. But he knew the layout, would recognize the sparse decorations and the strange toilet anywhere. He could hear the broken clocks ticking in the corner, could catch the distant sound of piano keys drumming without a melody.

Greece could see the crimson pattern of the one he loved most staining the ivory keys. He knew the smile the journal never mentioned and could smell the blood that had flooded out past his straight white teeth and thin, peach-coloured lips. Greece sat up on the bed as the image painted itself in his mind, looking at the real thing instead of wallowing in the memory.

"Japan." His lover didn't look at him, his eyes were off someplace else, but his attention was focused on Greece and he would never know how Japan managed to do that. "If you ever smile at me like that, I will never find the strength to forgive you."

It was all he had to say and it was quiet after that; there was no verbal reply from the one he cared for. Japan's response was to stand up carefully and proceed to belt on his sword again, fixing the blade to his side with the ritualistic care that meant so much to him.

Finished with that, Japan moved to stand over by the window and watched the sunlight filter through the trees and cut through the sheer curtains. With him standing out of the way like that Greece was free to get up and get ready in what little time was left before the conference would resume.

Even when he stepped out of the bathroom and started getting dressed, Japan was still standing by the window.

Japan's '_I love you'_ was in the sunlight refracted by the layered browns of his eyes, in the glow of his white suit and the smooth lines of his pale face.

Greece's _'I'll never leave you'_ echoed in the tremor of Japan's hand on his sword, resonating with the bloodshot look that stained his eyes.

Something had tortured his Japan, and Greece wasn't going to settle until he knew how. Until he understood _why._

They left for the conference. Together.

* * *

><p><strong>Reposted: <strong>**June 2013**


	2. Hungary Keeps Crying

**Memories. Did you know Within Temptation's Jillian is creepily appropriate for HetaOni!Italy?**

**I couldn't get Austria out of my head, so here he is. Axed the former 3rd chapter because I didn't like how it came together.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

Hungary Keeps Crying

Italy had always been an artist. That was what Austria found himself preoccupied with as the reading continued. He had been a true artist: a cultural god. Even from his infancy in Austria's house the little red-head had never stopped producing beautiful, awe-inspiring works of poetry, painting, sculpture, and song.

His poetic forms had dominated the art of composition for centuries- even when England produced his own hackneyed playwright, his greatness was only through the study of Italy's legendary bards. His artwork made up the core of France's collections, and his techniques with brush and stone were still mimicked across the continent. Italy's theology, his piety, and his unyielding conviction in the benevolence of the unknown had guided religious practices for half a millennium until Germany got his nose all out of joint...

His operas, both in composition and performance, had made Austria himself loath to let go of the little nation...

Italy's expositions, his treatises, his theories, his lectures, his great thinkers. Italy had been able to think and deal in the abstract better than most could manage with the lay matters of their day. That he'd been one of Europe's greatest imbeciles in daily conversation had meant nothing when you could discuss the ineffable, the unknowable, the inconceivable and the incredible with him- and all in the language of your choice.

It was that prose that drew him in now, made Austria forget where he was standing or what he was supposed to be doing as Poland took a turn reading from the blood-stained book. They would have to break for lunch soon, but it seemed more likely that the conference would continue on into the evening without interruption. They had been at this now for two days.

At least, it was two days with certainty. Austria's memories begged to differ.

"This is like... totally depressing..." The little blond at the podium made his comment only after stopping to drink the water next to him. And it wasn't a statement he made lightly either. Austria should have been offended by the words but the defeated look on Poland's face told him not take it to heart. The colour had slowly drained from the nation's face and his green eyes looked foggy, like he'd lost blood or was feeling sick.

Judging by how much water he drank, it was probably the latter. The eastern country's hands were shaking as he set them back down on the journal, his voice taking several moments to return.

"_'Hungary called Prussia. I don't know what they talked about but Prussia cried when the signal died. After that...'_"

Italy was a true artist, one who had developed with the times. His prose was deceptively simple and therefore all the more grotesque. The casual phrases, the blunt descriptions, the complete lack of word-play or trivialities. The words rung hollow when you heard '_I went around the house breaking things, there was no one to get mad or stop me.'_, but then you stopped. Then you thought about them. You realized why there was no one there. You understood that happy, light-hearted, air-headed Italy had wandered through an empty, blood-stained mansion and shattered and damaged everything he could get his hands on.

Look at it again:

'_Hungary called Prussia.'_ Isolated from friends, family and aid, a spark of hope flashed when the reception to their phones was restored for a moment. _'I don't know what they talked about'_, you could feel the anxiety, the fear, the relief as contact was made and information could be exchanged. It didn't matter what the information was, it moved. _'Prussia cried when the signal died.' _And if you were Austria then you could hear Hungary crying into her phone, see her hands wrapped white-knuckle around the device, feel her shoulders shaking with sobs under your hands...

"_'When the Thing...'_ No. I... I can't." Poland? Austria didn't know who he was looking at in the array of chairs and tables, but he focused his attention back on the blond. Poland's smile was crooked, his eyes looked red. "Shit, I... like, this is way harder than it should be." Don't swear into the microphone... "Hey you! T-Take over for me!"

Poland couldn't even hold his arm still as he pointed into the crowd, Iceland sitting up hesitantly before looking at Norway who was next to him. Neither of them said anything before the younger nation slowly edged his chair back to stand.

Now would be the time to introduce a break. Austria watched Iceland approach the podium while Poland looked like he was still leaning on it for support. The eastern European nation didn't look quite stable, his crooked smile still in place as the youngest of the Nordics came up and placed a hand on Poland's shoulder. Iceland then covered the mic before murmuring something.

Poland nodded, made some kind of remark, and somehow managed to leave the podium and find his seat next to Lithuania. Iceland took a few moments to simply stand there, adjusting to the many eyes watching him, the world silent and waiting as he lowered his gaze to the crimson text on the pages in front of him, scanning for the place where Poland had left off.

Two days of this, how were they still so far from the end? Austria hadn't read from it yet, but from what he had seen of the journal Italy's neat script wasn't cramped onto the pages, saving space. The voice that filled the air spoke quickly to get events down, not sparingly to preserve the paper. He hadn't wanted space: he'd wanted it to end.

Iceland read, Italy spoke:

" _'When the Thing moved away from the wall this time, France said Canada's name and charged. I know that's not what Canada would have wanted, but France is always reckless after he dies. England got the key but then he turned around and tried to help instead of running away._

_I failed again. One more time.'_"

Italy was a true master, and they were chained to his words.

* * *

><p>Lunch was a sombre affair produced by necessity and nothing more. The hotel had been more than willing to accommodate their extended stay, the conference centre was happy to be of service although they didn't know the specifics.<p>

They provided an elaborate spread of food.

The nations hardly disturbed it.

Austria watched the crowd as the members moved. The almost festive, feisty air of the original world summit was officially gone now. It was truly serious, a dower expression on everyone's face as conversations were quiet and carried on between very small groups.

Briefly, for a moment, Austria thought he saw Romano move through the shadows. As far as he knew no one had been able to speak to Veneziano's brother yet, but it wasn't for lack of effort. Spain had tried several times already and somehow thought that Austria could break through the walls their former protectorate had thrown up. For himself, Austria had no idea how he was supposed to accomplish that goal.

"You're the closest thing he has to family now, Spain. You can't expect me to handle it."

"Don't you have _any_ advice?" Austria had made himself eat a bit of bread, buttering one part of it before deciding the taste didn't suit his pallet. He ate around the butter, tossing his plate away before he made himself sick.

"They don't write manuals on how to console people whose younger brothers have been tortured to the brink and then killed by otherworldly time-travelling monsters." It sounded so harsh, harsher than Austria had meant to be. He was shocked by his own impudence. "I don't know. I'm sorry." Perhaps it was getting to him too? The whatever-it-was that was lurking in everyone's shadow?

Spain left him in a huff and Austria didn't blame him for being upset with his attitude. Looking around the room again, he tried to understand what he was seeing.

The survivors looked haggard. He spotted them easily just by searching for the tightest groups of nations. China had barely uttered a word since their return yesterday, Hong Kong standing closer to his estranged brother than he otherwise might have, and the same could be said for Taiwan. Korea didn't know what to do with himself, but since the last time Austria had scanned the crowd he could see that the troubled nation had coaxed an almost catatonic Japan to join the cluster, Greece hovering at the empire's side.

Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, Ukraine and Belarus were standing around a seated Russia in an oddly protective manner. The large nation in the centre didn't seem to be saying anything, and there was no indication that he was trying to keep them there: his face was down in his hands, elbows on his knees. When Finland tried to get Estonia's attention for something, Austria was surprised to see the Baltic state put up a hand and shake his head, asking Finland to leave them alone.

India, Uganda, Sri-Lanka, New Zealand, (that idiot Australia!), there were too many nations to name all orbiting around one corner of the hall, their soft voices feathering through the air as all fifty-four Commonwealth states gravitated around their two afflicted members. England couldn't be seen through the screen but Austria had noticed Scotland moving purposefully into the centre of the loose group, Ireland and Wales in tow to help find their brother. Canada stood on the periphery however: Cuba, the Netherlands, Belgium, Cyprus, France and Seychelles close enough that it was clear they were all drawing something from one another's presence.

It happened slowly, but Switzerland and his sister eventually made their way over to France as well. When Spain gave up on finding Romano, he returned and placed a hand on his friend's slumped shoulder.

Austria had only seen America briefly, the blond escaping out one of the doors into the hall with Mexico hot on his heels. It made sense why he left: when Israel tried speaking to him a scuffle immediately broke out between him and Saudi Arabia, who had been standing nearby. Austria didn't know who else America had to speak to who hadn't also been in the mansion with him, so maybe that was why the former Spanish colony was trying so hard to get his attention.

Germany, likewise, was gone. Maybe he had left to find Romano?

When Austria couldn't find Prussia he dismissed it like the other two.

When he realized he couldn't see Hungary either, he began to worry.

* * *

><p>"<em>I didn't call you!<em>"

He found them.

"Hungary-"

"_I. Did. Not. Call. __**You!**__"_

Austria didn't step out into the hall to confront them, to make Hungary drop her voice or to spare Prussia from her screaming. He didn't know why he stayed where he was, around the corner, but for some reason despite searching for the two of them he didn't want to move.

"_I didn't call you!"_ Her voice was hysterical, Austria was struggling to think of a time where she had sounded like that. _"I __**never**__ called you! I never, ever-_" Not during the war of succession, not during his annexation, when had she ever-?

"_I get it! _Hungary I didn't write the damn journal! It's not like I-" Prussia sounded completely flustered, something cracking in his voice and keeping Austria pressed against the wall. "_Stop it!"_

Scuffling, the sound of hands striking out and feet shuffling over the red carpets. Austria heard a hard slap and Prussia grunted- indicating that he was the recipient, not the dealer. Still, for all the bad history Austria felt the growing need to stop her, why was Hungary behaving like this?

"You stupid bitch! When did you start acting like such a woman?"

"Shut up! Why didn't you call!?" What?

"What…?"

Prussia's flustered voice was quiet, Hungary's response was too low for Austria to catch. There were voices though, sounds, words muffled by distance and falling out of the air before they could reach around the corner. He should walk away now.

"_I never had to call..._" Walk away, now Austria should- "_You always called first, in every memory, every time. Why did I have to do it that time?"_ He remembered her tears.

Austria remembered Hungary crying. The more they read of the journal, the more he remembered her crying, or her frustration, or her anger, or just her tears as she hung onto her phone like a life-line, because that's what it was. Prussia's life-line. Hungary had been Prussia's connection to what was real, to what was beyond the nightmare.

Austria hadn't begrudged it, the first time.

Or the time after that, the first time.

Or after that, the first time.

And then there was the first time Austria had comforted her, or tried to.

And again, the first time, when he hadn't begrudged her for not wanting his comforts.

And the first time it happened she hadn't stopped crying until he left her alone. Until Prussia called her the first time. Or until she called Prussia, for the first time?

The only intellectual who could speak thoughtfully on the abstract, who devoured conundrums like candies, who put the unspeakable into song, was dead. There was no one to talk to, no one to apply reason to impossibility and reign in the abstract with concrete discussion. Time travel was beyond one nation's ability to comprehend... at least, not without coming to the same conclusion every, single, time.

Italy was dead.

And Austria left, for the last time.

* * *

><p><strong>Reposted: <strong>**June**** 201****3.**


	3. Switzerland's Smoking Gun

**Vanity, Stop, Axis Powers, Eden.**

**This chapter was supposed to have Germany, but I forgot and wrote Austria into his place by accident. When I tried coming back to rewrite it I decided that I actually preferred Austria where he was, so, oops? And the Summit is taking place in Switzerland because I couldn't figure out where to put the house.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

Switzerland's Smoking Gun

"_Oi! Just because we're trade partners doesn't mean you can flirt with my sister!"_

"_Big Brother!"_

"_Ve- oh!__ Switzerland there you are!"_

* * *

><p>Her brother's hotel was a very pretty building: the conference centre built underneath it was well decorated and was perfect for the large assembly. There were tall windows everywhere to let the summer sunlight in, the carpets all dyed a deep wine red and the walls coated in soft cream paint, and there were tall white columns decorated the main corridors as well. It felt very grand to walk through the Bern hotel with its tall vases filled with flowers piled high above her head, the natural light filtering through the building made everything seem bright and elegant.<p>

But somehow, as the third day of readings started, even Lichtenstein couldn't ignore the fact that the flowers seemed wilted, and how the red carpets reminded her of something altogether different. It was so rare for her to feel uncomfortable when she was visiting Switzerland, but that was what was happening.

Everyone's memory was a little strange now. Lichtenstein remembered arguments that hadn't happened, people crying who hadn't broken down, and leaving the hotel for places she had never been before- both with and without her big brother. It was all very, very confusing.

And it was all so sad too...

"Mr. Austria?"

So she made sure to wake up early today, brushing her blonde hair and tying her indigo ribbon to the side of her head where it belonged, her yellow dress clean and proper despite being a little bit out of style- she liked the quaint look though, the bits of lace around the sleeves and hem, the turned down white collar... It wasn't red like her usual dress. Again, the colour made her think of something very different.

"Miss Lichtenstein." Austria had always been fond of both the colour blue and the white tie looped around his throat. Even in the new century he had only gone so far as to change the cut of his robin-egg jacket, and straightened it with a quick tug as he recognized her. Despite being almost as tall and as broad as Mr. Germany, he seemed keen to dress in a way that slimmed him down. "I hope you slept well last night; we will need all of our stamina for today."

"Yes, sir. Which is why I wanted to make a request." It had been on her mind since last night, since Norway finished several hours of reading in his brother's place. Her mind had been... replaying things. Quickly. In flashes. She wasn't quite sure what she'd seen but she wanted to know more. It was almost like a need, really. "May I read from the Journal this morning?"

"..?" Austria looked so surprised! He looked like he jumped a little when she asked the question and she saw his eyes immediately move past her, scanning up and down the hall. Ah, she knew what he...

"Mr. Austria this is my request, not my brother's."

"Er... I can see that, Miss Lichtenstein, but you must understand my concern. Switzerland is quite protective of you, and as our host, he-"

"It's a book." Oh, but she knew it was more than that. Lichtenstein rarely interacted with countries aside from her brother, but she knew that Iceland wasn't the sort of person to run away from something. He could stand in the snow and wind and rain of the north Atlantic without buckling, and Lichtenstein had heard all the stories about Poland laughing even in the face of a two-front war... not standing like a corpse waiting for a breeze to knock him over. "Please, Mister Austria. There's something that's been bothering me and I want the journal to show me what it is."

He still didn't look convinced... not entirely anyways...

"Italy wrote nothing kind on those pages... Please understand."

"I do. But I am a nation like everyone else: I'm entitled to see what our fellow country wrote down. I have every right to know what happened."

Austria took a deep breath, his expression troubled as she hoped he weighed what she'd said. She understood that he was being put in a difficult position. Lichtenstein didn't know why Switzerland had decided Austria should lead the conference when it was taking place in his capitol, but there seemed to be some sort of unspoken agreement between the two of them. The tiny nation felt her lungs start to ache and realized she was holding her breath too, just like Austria. Finally:

"Alright. Come with me."

* * *

><p>"<em>He was bothering you?"<em>

"_N-No! Switzerland, I just-"_

"_Big brother, Mr. Italy was complimenting the new ribbon you bought for me. He was looking for you."_

* * *

><p>Maybe she should have told her brother first but, somehow, despite how cruel it seemed, Lichtenstein knew she was right to let Austria bear the brunt of it. Her brother arrived late to the hall and Austria had already finished briefing the remaining nations, allowing her to prepare with the journal before taking her place at the podium.<p>

She saw Austria intercept a dumbstruck Switzerland and silently apologized to her brother before looking down at the tome in front of her. She thought she saw Mr. Germany move too, but didn't want to look up again.

The tome looked like a Holy Bible. The leather binding was cracked and worn, stained with water and wine- or were they tears and blood? She wasn't one for such dark thoughts but it was impossible to see anything else. The pages she had flipped through were covered in text written by a hand she had seen from time to time, in letters or requests to her brother- usually benign things like _'Please let me see Germany!'_ or_ 'Would you like some pasta?'_. What was most disturbing about the words now however, aside from their content, was the medium.

The red ink, it looked so much like blood... Somehow the thin pages had soaked it up without bleeding and rendering the text incomprehensible, but there were still places where Italy's hand had strayed and his script had faltered. His lines, usually so straight and neat, would veer off and run sideways or diagonal down the page. There were drawings on some pages, very small, but very precise as every pen-stroke sat exactly where it had to be on the page.

All of the pictures were of clocks...

Finding the last line from the day before, she read it to herself just to make sure she was in the right place.

**I can't do this anymore...**

Yes, that was the correct line. It marked the end of the page so all she had to do was turn it over to the next one and begin. The very first line surprised her though, and suddenly the heat of the lights shining down on the podium, the weight of the world's eyes watching her, and all of the sombre expressions hovering in the glare and shadows completely vanished.

She was suddenly all alone, but not for long: there was still someone there. Someone behind her, someone she couldn't see and couldn't describe, but he was there just the same.

And Italy said...

* * *

><p>"<em>Go downstairs, Lichtenstein."<em>

"_Alright. It was nice speaking to you, Mr. Italy."_

"_Ah... grazie signorina Lichtenstein..."_

* * *

><p>"I know you're upset but, Switz-"<p>

"_Why would you do that!_" Upset? Austria wanted to see upset? When he put a bullet through the aristocrat's head _then_ he'd see upset! "How could you let her go up there! What kind of gentleman are you?"

"She's going to hear it anyways so-"

"Hearing and reading from that thing are not the same _and you know it!"_ He could shout out here, he probably shouldn't but the doors were closed and Austria had pushed and yanked and dragged Switzerland back far enough down the hall so that their voices wouldn't carry. But it didn't matter, once someone started reading it was impossible to hear anything else: they could set the hotel on fire and it wouldn't do them any good!

"Switzer-"

"_I know what he did next!"_ It was impossible to know for sure, no one could make a definite prediction. Switzerland hadn't read from the journal yet, he knew he'd have to but there was a precise time, a single moment, where he wanted to do it. It was something calling to him from the pages, something about that streaking imbecile that told him there was something Switzerland would have to own up to and accept about one of his past selves.

It wasn't now, but now was still a time where he needed to be able to defend himself against reality. Had he figured it out in a dream last night? In the hall yesterday? Had it come to him only once he stepped into the room and saw Lichtenstein standing there with that bloody grimoire in her hands? It didn't damn well matter!

This, it was bad. What he knew right now was bad but Switzerland could handle it. But Lichtenstein? How could she-? She would never... look at him again...

Lichtenstein...

* * *

><p>"<em>...I'll shoot you if I see you around her again."<em>

"_But I didn't do anything, I swear!"_

"_What the hell do you want, Italy?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Mi perdoni, Padre, perché ho peccato...<strong>

Forgive me father for I have sinned. The page was covered in pieces of Italian but too much water had spilled onto the paper and caused the ink to run together, destroying the words. Lichtenstein's grasp of Italian wasn't as strong as it should have been, not anymore, but although it occurred to her that perhaps South Italy should come up and read these lines instead, she avoided looking up.

Or, maybe she was made to avoid it. Lichtenstein didn't know Italian very well, but the presence whispering behind her helped the words along, some of them. She could hear a kind voice helping her sound out and pronounce the complicated Latin phrases. It was just a prayer though: there was a lot of emotion, but very little content.

Suffering, sin, despair, the willingness to repent, the inability to hope, the loss of belief. It was a prayer from someone whose impregnable faith had been destroyed, whose piety had been outdone and his immortal soul had been forfeit as a result. Disillusioned, broken, desperate. She used one finger on the mangled page to trace down a long bloody line, trying to keep the words together as they were murmured behind her ear...

She wanted to cry, but somehow knew she shouldn't.

Turn the page and-

* * *

><p>"<em>I... I was wondering..."<em>

"_Speak up!"_

"_Swizterland, may I- May I borrow your gun?"_

"_...What?"_

* * *

><p>Lichtenstein brought a hand up over her mouth. She'd run out of broken Italian and was looking down at words she could either read as they were or translate for the benefit of others. The words on this page were in English, she could read them, but stamped over the cleaner, neater script was something more horrifying than the self-loathing and disillusionment of the previous page.<p>

Italy had filled the page with crimson words and then placed his bloody hand over it, smearing the paper with streaks of crimson.

And Italy said:

**I killed them, I don't know how I did it, or why. I kept remembering what America said to me last time before he died, how he begged me, and somehow I managed to try it. I can't keep watching them die, but what made me think I could kill them myself and end it? My memory is filled with holes****:**** I can't remember why I thought this was better****!**

**I changed things at the Summit this time. I went to Switzerland and...**

_'__My__ brother?'_

Italy kept talking.

* * *

><p><em>"You're going with Germany and Prussia, aren't you? Why do you need a gun?"<em>

_"For protection! You said the road is dangerous." He __**had**__ said that..._

_"But you're __**going**__ with- oh nevermind. Have you even fired one before, you lout?"_

"_Ah, well! You see Romano and Germany both taught me to use one! I know how to hold one, and aim it, and clean it after, and reload it..." None of those actually meant yes..._

* * *

><p>"Be careful with that!"<p>

"_It's empty!_" Austria almost panicked when Switzerland reached to the holster at his belt, wrapping his fingers around the pistol and drawing the sleek SIG P210 handgun. To anyone who didn't know guns it was just another side-arm, a short weapon with a grip, barrel and trigger that wasn't anything special unless it was pointed at you and fully loaded.

Switzerland held the pistol up but kept the barrel pointed at the wall, his fingers away from the trigger as he angrily held the weapon up so Austria had to see it. It was empty, and without knowing why Switzerland's free hand drifted to the case at his belt, where his spare munitions were kept. Were supposed to be kept.

"Empty! All eight shots and half my spare rounds are gone! I loaded it before everyone arrived here, I haven't used it once, and it's _empty!_"

And he knew why. Oh Father in heaven forgive him. Switzerland didn't have to hear the reading today, didn't have to hear Italy tell the story. He already knew _why..._

* * *

><p>"<em>It holds eight rounds."<em>

"_Only eight..."_

"_Huh?"_

"_It's really great! Very old too, for a gun."_

_"If you damage or lose it, Italy, I swear you'll regret it."_

* * *

><p><strong>It was wrong. I know God has forsaken me now because I have forsaken myself. The people I swore to protect are the ones I killed. How could I? America was wrong, this isn't mercy at all.<strong>

As she read the worst kind of feeling began to settle over Lichtenstein. Her voice was working but it wasn't really hers, her eyes travelled over the words but not guided by her own thoughts.

She felt something touching her wrist, but she knew there was nothing there. The soft Italian accent murmuring by her ear didn't go away, didn't change its sorrowful sound, but she felt that presence settle over her hand and then wrap around it like fingers. She had to lift it up, had to pick up her wrist because someone was guiding it for her.

She placed her hand over the bloody imprint on the book, her lips still moving and Italy's words still coming, but Lichtenstein was suddenly so far away...

_He killed America before they even made it into the house. Prussia and China were encouraged to go inside ahead of them, but Italy waved his arms and tugged on America's sleeve to get his friend's attention. He'd considered taking Germany instead, but this time Germany had gone ahead by a few hours, arriving with France and England instead. Canada and Russia would come later, Italy was sure._

"_Tracks! I saw tracks in the dirt, I thought you knew all about hunting animals, don't you America? What if it's a big scary bear!" He was proud of himself for not having to use the word Hero. America charged boldly into the forest and Italy hung back just long enough to make sure the others were inside. The walls would block the sound, he knew they would._

_There were no tracks, but Italy was determined to take him away from the main path. His hands were shaking so badly when he drew the gun and his nerve failed him __three__ times when he tried touching the trigger. He started crying and when America asked what was wrong, Italy played it off as fear of the bear._

_Fed up, America turned to go marching back to the house._

Bang!

_Italy shot him. He was thankful that Switzerland had good taste in guns and that the sight was accurate. The bullet tore straight through America's neck from behind and the mansion's effects were already being exerted on the larger, stronger nation. Just being on the grounds was enough to weaken you, Italy knew that for a fact._

_America died not knowing that happened, and as Italy took the spare magazines from the Yankee's pockets he said the only words he could think of._

"Justorum animae in manu Dei, et non tanget illos tormentum..._" The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no torment shall touch them..._

_He had spare munitions from Switzerland, but he took America's just in case. He left America's gun though: the others would notice if he was carrying it around._

_In order, he shot America outside, France in the kitchen, and China in the library. He used three bullets on China because the ancient country moved unexpectedly and the first shot missed._

Bang! Bang!

_In a panic, Italy squeezed the trigger twice. At that range China's skull was devastated, and with that much noise it made sense when Japan came running._

_Italy hid behind the bookcases, praying as he peered through a gap and saw Japan's horrified expression. It was hard to mistake a bullet wound for anything but a bullet wound. Italy had told them that America had run off once they came back inside, maybe the former Axis Power had thought it was the Yankee who had done it._

_Italy's hand reached out through a gap between the books, and he prayed:_

"_The souls of the righteous-" _Bang! "-_are in the hands of God..."_

_The barrel of the gun was so close to Japan's head that it burnt the skin behind his ear, like a kiss._

_He locked the library door behind him, but only after arranging Japan and China on their backs. He folded their hands and straightened their legs, letting them lay side by side. It was just like how he'd left America. The same way he'd arranged France._

_The eighth bullet surprised Russia. He'd stared straight down the barrel of the gun with a grin on his face as he asked whether Italy really thought he could shoot him. He hadn't believed Italy could, and with how badly he was shaking and how blinded by tears he was, Veneziano almost __ha__dn't. But he killed Russia in the bathroom and the bullet sailed through his head and shattered the mirror behind him. So much blood from one little blast, the back of the __S__lavic nation's skull exploded behind him and covered the glass in crimson._

_Italy hid in one of the bedrooms and reloaded the gun. When Prussia stumbled across him and asked about the blood on his uniform, Italy asked him to say a prayer with him. The former knight obliged him, head bowed, hands clasped..._

"_-amen." _Bang!

_Prussia's soul was oblivious in God's arms... free._

_Italy didn't know Canada was in the room, watching him, until Kumajiro snarled and charged at him. It took six bullets to kill the bear and it turned into a grappling match after that- the gun knocked clear out of Italy's hands and skating across the floor._

_Canada was the hardest to kill. He looked up at him with so much hate and so much pain as Italy got his hands around the other nation's neck, it was impossible. All he wanted to do was let go, but instead he kept squeezing and choking the air out of him, keeping all of his weight pressing down on Canada's airway. He hadn't known the other nation carried a knife until it was lodged in Italy's side, missing his lung._

_He used his arms to lift and slam Canada's head down on the floor, doing it again and again as hard as he could until the former colony stopped fighting. Suffocation took too long to kill, Italy couldn't do that to him. He pulled out the knife and hid it under the rug where they'd been fighting, rushing to grab the gun as Canada struggled to roll over and crawl away._

_A bullet in the back of his bloody head ended Canada's nightmare._

_With only two more to kill Italy was ready to wake up from his._

_England was hard to take down. The former Empire had found France and began tearing through the house, looking for America. Somehow the wizard had found his way into the fourth floor bedroom and had pulled the lever to hell. He'd dropped into the music room,__ and__ then gone into the library. He found China and Japan as Italy'd left them._

_The blood soaking Italy's uniform had been more than enough to tell him the truth. That England caught him reloading the gun with the last of Switzerland's bullets just made him snap._

_That was when the Thing decided to appear, and raked its claws down England's back. Italy fired seven shots at the thing before he remembered what the gun was for and put the eighth one in the Briton's head, releasing him._

_After that Italy just had to run until he lost the Thing again. It wasn't hard considering all the times he'd felt that sinister chill, that eerie presence closing in on him from behind. It almost wasn't even scary anymore._

_One last time he loaded the gun, this time with America's ammunition. He didn't need it though._

_He found Germany in the second floor bedroom... But he was nothing but a bloody mess that had died alone, his insides torn out and his essence splashed across the walls. Germany bled more than anyone. He had died slower than anyone, in more pain than anyone._

_Italy screamed until he couldn't scream anymore._

_In a few hours he had managed to save eight souls out of nine. But he'd missed the most important one._

_He'd failed __**again**__..._

Lichtenstein heard herself only after the vision faded, her voice delayed in reaching her.

**-this isn't mercy at all.**

She'd already said that...

**But I know where the keys are, I know I can't let this be how it ends. One more time, I'll make it this time.**

How had... she seen all of that in only three lines..? Lichtenstein moved her hand and realized that the page wasn't even warm from her touch. She hadn't turned the page, she'd hardly read half-way down.

_'Herr Italien...?'_ She was still reading, not in control of her voice as the words were formed and moved through the air, captured by the mic hovering in front of her and spreading through the large chamber. _'Herr Italien, how much did you suffer?'_

So much, that was the answer. He had suffered so, so much...

* * *

><p><strong>Really now, did no one ever wonder if Italy could be incensed to kill them all and break the cycle? You can't go through something hundreds of times with the same result, STILL TRYING to get the outcome you want, unless you know for a fact that every alternative is unspeakable. I can actually see him having resorted to murder a couple of times, especially after his memory started getting spotty, only to have Steve kill someone horribly before Italy could 'save' them.<strong>

**Reposted: ****June, 2013**


	4. A Truly United Kingdom

**Jillian, Chikyuu playlist, England, Eden, Memories, My Heart is Broken.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

A Truly United Kingdom

"You _idiot!_"

"Five minutes! I left for five bleedin' minutes!"

"And look what happened!"

It looked like a bomb had gone off. Smoke was still clearing out into the hall and the television was sparking madly even after they'd unplugged the smashed electronic. The window was open and Wales had gone out into the hall to try and explain things to the hotel manager. It would be coming out of his living expenses but England was fine with that, he just stayed by the window, arms folded and his jacket draped over his shoulders.

It was dark outside, it was the middle of the night.

"Stop mincing shit, Erin." Ireland's old Briton name rolled off Wales' tongue as the tall, lanky-looking brunet came back inside, shutting the hotel room door behind him. "You should of called us."

"_Five minutes!_" The little ginger hollered back, not about to be lectured._ "He was asleep!_"

"See here, lad, if you can't follow simple instructions then-"

"_Don't give me that crap!_" Ireland's temper was usually better than Scotland's, but as the middle brother let his temper fly the eldest brought his voice up to meet him- and then Wales started yelling at them both.

Loud. In a word England's family was very loud. As the youngest of the four England usually looked older than short, curly-haired Ireland and gawky, grey-eyed Wales, but Scotland drank, smoked and fought enough with everybody that it was impossible to get the auburn-haired northerner confused for someone younger. England looked older than the middle two, but becoming an empire could do that to you.

And as they shouted at one another England couldn't help but feel excluded, something that almost always happened when he was at home. Most nations would slip into the native tongue of their people when flustered, but while Ireland could still jab at Scotland in Gaelic, and Wales could loudly yammer on in Cornish and get England's attention with certain words...

_'First the Romans, then the Saxons, and then that Norman bastard...'_ Multilingual? England? Not in the way his brothers would know it. French? Yes. German? Of course. Latin until it went out of style. Spanish when it had been important, Japanese when it became profitable, Chinese before the Opium wars, bits and pieces for the Colonies...

Irish Gaelic? Cornish? Scottish Gaelic? Welsh? Er...

He looked back outside again, folding his arms a little tighter and gripping the loose sides of the nightshirt he was still wearing, careful not to strain his wounded shoulder. Mint-Bunny was hovering next to him, the green fae looking at him sadly as England watched her reflection hover on the dark glass. The night air was cold, the wind smelled sweet without the smoke.

Reaching out a little bit, England pulled the window shut as the cold crept inside. He'd rather smell burnt plastic than let the heat out right now. He rubbed his shoulder again, wincing slightly at the sore tension in the wounded muscle.

* * *

><p>"<em>I know what you're planning, England."<em>

_"Then you know not to stop me."_

"_Do I?" And then England was staring down the barrel of America's gun._

* * *

><p>"<em>I'll stop them, England!"<em> Huh?

Wait, Mint-Bunny!

"_STOP FIGHTING RIGHT NOW OHMYGOOOOOD!"_

"Mint-Bunny!"

"Why're you-?"

"_Wah! Don't bite!"_

England found himself standing there without saying anything, watching as Wales took a face-full of green feathers before the fae got a grip on a lock of Scotland's red hair and yanked on it until he let go of Ireland. The smallest brother wound up getting his hand nipped sharply when he tried reaching for the small creature.

"Hah! Serves you both right!" Wales' boasting just got him hoisted up onto his toes by Scotland's hand at his collar, and Mint-Bunny shot herself between both of them like a mad pin-ball to smack them both.

"_I said **stop!** Can't you see England's upset!"_ Ah... Mint-Bunny...

"They're just trying to help, Minty! They haven't had much sleep..." Which was his fault, unfortunately. And- "W...why are you all looking at me like that?"

And they _were_ looking at him. Ireland's expression was sour but it looked forced for some reason, like he was pinching his lips like that on purpose to look annoyed. Wales was holding Mint-Bunny now, stroking the flustered little fairy animal with one hand as he shuffled his feet awkwardly and looked at England.

"That don't sound like the wee England I know..." Scotland's comment didn't do much to bolster his confidence, England tensing up slightly as he took a deep breath to say something. Then he forgot what it was, and looked over at the demolished TV instead.

The television was set up directly across from the bed where he'd been sleeping, which was next to the chair that Ireland had apparently left vacant at some point. It didn't make any sense why England had done it, but his magic had blasted the electronic device to pieces, setting off a silent alarm in the building and bringing hotel staff (and his older brothers) running.

Well, it made sense _why_ he'd done it. He hadn't been able to see, he'd been blind, helpless. The Thing had been coming closer to him, creeping up slowly and poisoning the air with dread. He hadn't been able to breathe, to think, his mind had scrambled frantically for the first and only thing he could defend himself with...

Those club-like arms with great curved talons on the end, those beak-like mouths atop long, flexible necks. Dead, sightless eyes, just like his own now that he was blind- when had he gone blind? England could see perfectly fine right now... He'd seen the gun pointed at him just before the bullet tore through him...

* * *

><p>"<em>W-where the bloody hell did you-?"<em>

"_You sent them back? I was waiting." Spain and Romano? How did he know-? "Put it on the floor and kick it over to me." The journal in his hands- Italy had a similar one in a case hanging at his belt- one even bloodier and beaten up than the one England set down. "If any of you move, I _will_ shoot him." _

_Only Russia dared to ask:_

"_...So which loop are you from then, Italy?"_

* * *

><p>"Maybe..." England kept his eyes averted, then realized that he had his hand up and fingers hovering in front of his eyes and dropped it quickly, not looking over at his older brothers. Of course he didn't sound like himself, but how could he blame someone else for what was obviously his own disturbing problem? "Maybe there's a room downstairs where I can stay instead, away from anything I might accidentally damage."<p>

If Scotland had given him the nightmares then yes, sure, England would have shrieked at him and started a brawl. If it was America's fault then England would have marched straight to the Yankee's room and given him hell and scones until he begged for mercy.

But that wasn't what this was. And out of everyone the last person he wanted to see was America.

_'Night-terrors at my age...' _It was _pathetic_... _'I'm a fully grown nation for God's sake! Look at me!'_ But it wasn't looking or seeing that was the issue.

* * *

><p>"<em>The last one."<em>

* * *

><p>The problem was in his head...<p>

"Yes! What if we take him to the town jail?" Huh? Wait, why did Ireland sound so _happy_ when he said that? "Then England won't be able to blow anything up! And he'll be in-" Now hold on! He had something to say first:

"I've been considering a new head-tax on children, Ireland, what do you think?" England felt the temperature in the room shoot up by four degrees as his brother heard him, flames surging up around the smaller island.

"Not funny, Iggy." Well if you thought about it- "Not fucking funny. Don't fucking joke about what's _not fucking-_" If Ireland wanted to joke about England spending the night in _jail_ then England was allowed to make all the bad jokes he wanted. But his comment didn't solve their problem, so he took a deep breath and came up with something to satisfy them, making sure his tone was dismissive rather than outright antagonizing.

"The lot of you haven't slept in days because of this, don't worry about me tonight." Don't worry about England and his magic acting up in the dark. No, it only happened when he was asleep so the solution was simple: rather than force his brothers to stay up and watch him the way they had been, he'd make himself useful. "I think I'll just have my boss fax me over some paperwork from London. I've been out of touch so I'm sure he'll want to hear from me."

"_Aye_, Iggy, 'cause you've slept like a babe since you got back, haven't ya?" Scotland's voice was drizzled with sarcasm, the eldest Briton placing his hands on his hips and dropping his thick red eyebrows down in a scowl. "You an' I spent the whole night drinkin' after you returned. An' accordin' to Wales you did the same thing with him last night, didn't ya?" Hmph.

"I'm not going to get _drunk_ if that's what you're worried about." It was typical of Scotland's grammar to fall apart when he was flustered and trying to sound intimidating. England didn't want to fight with him, not tonight, not for a few more days at least, but his brother would have to mind his temper too.

"You need to sleep more than we do." Mm... Wales had a way of speaking quickly and with a fluid sound to the words, stretching his vowels like they were being run around spools. The effect was more pronounced the faster he tried to go, and the speed usually determined how stubborn he was going to be. "It's been three days."

"I slept while Ireland was here." He interjected quickly, cutting off the brunet and waving his hand dismissively. "Four, five hours? I'm fine for tonight." Ah, they were all giving him the same damned look now. Scotland, Ireland and Wales looked so different when they were riled up and angry, but they each twisted their mouths the same way when upset, their thick eyebrows domed over green, hazel, and grey eyes respectively.

Ireland looked away first. The boy glanced at his watch and then closed his eyes, exhausted. England felt himself pinching his lips the same way his brothers were, but couldn't make it stop as Mint-Bunny jumped from Wales' hands and hovered in the air over the mussed up bed. She looked just as sad.

England caved.

"Alright, so it was just one hour, but-"

"You talked." Ireland interrupted, but the kid kept his eyes on the wall and his tone wasn't snappy enough to distract from the topic. "For like half an hour, we were just talking. You only nodded off just before I left."

Okay so he'd slept for maybe five minutes then, that wasn't so bad, was it? Sure his body felt heavy and exhausted, and his head felt a bit empty, and his stomach had refused what little food he'd tried to fill it with, but he was fine! It was just three days!

"You're over-reacting! Not about the magic, I admit, that's a bit scary, but sleep? Ha_ha_ha!" Oh- ouch. That laugh didn't come out right. It didn't sound like England at all with that crack in the middle... "Ah... well- during the war I went weeks without sleeping! I was like a machine!"

"England..." Wales had a way of looking so pathetic when he felt bad for someone else. It didn't happen very often, but... His entire face just seemed to droop when he displayed sympathy.

"_Devil take you, England! This isn't some kinda jo-_" Smack! _"Ow..."_

"I think the devil's done his work for a while." Scotland's throaty voice cut through Ireland's whining after the deft blow left the smaller island simpering. "But you're right." Of course he was right! The war had gone on for years and England had- "Not you. Ireland." Bollocks.

Mint-Bunny drifted back over to them and fluttered through the air around England, not saying anything before she looped between his brothers. He thought he saw her murmur something to Wales but was distracted as Scotland suddenly started smiling.

It wasn't a good smile.

"C'mere for a minute, baby brother." Ehhh-!

"I don't trust you!"

Wales started walking towards him and Mint-Bunny was seated on Ireland's head, the little ginger looked confused.

"How's your shoulder feeling, Iggy?" Wales was trying to walk around behind him and England wasn't having any of that, keeping eye-contact with his brother as he slowly turned so Wales couldn't get behind him.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Stop acting creep- _gyaaah!"_

"_Gotcha!_" Let go! Let go you dirty Scot!

England flailed and swore as he felt Scotland's arm loop around his neck and jerk him back in a choke-hold, his head pressed tight against his brother's chest. He could hear the taller nation chuckling and kicked wildly, flapping his good arm and shrieking profanities.

"_Grab that hand!"_

"_I got him!"_

"_Feather plucker- let go!_" Cupid stunt, Ireland!

Rhythm slang started flying off his tongue and England felt himself being dragged backwards by Scotland, Ireland clinging to his elbow and threatening to squeeze his bad shoulder if he didn't stop fighting. Wales was just laughing- that paper hat!

"You're worse than France! What are you doing! _Stop tha-!_" Scotland's big hand came down over his mouth and England shook his head like mad trying to get free, teeth snapping until the grip around his neck threatened to actually choke him.

England chose to completely wipe his memory of what happened next. Being flung back onto the bed with Scotland strangling him, Ireland sitting on his right arm, and Wales getting into the fray by wrapping his arms around England's knees was just too humiliating.

"There, ain' that better?" NO. NO IT WAS NOT. "Look, Iggy, we're all tired after watchin' you be so miserable, so why dun' you do us all a favour and go to sleep?" Scotland was still muzzling him so all England could do was huff angrily against his brother's hand, a shiver of revulsion shooting down his spine as the ugly Scot nuzzled the top of his head. They weren't that close! Let go, damn it!

"...It's kinda like when we were kids..." Wales' voice sounded slow and tired, England able to feel the adolescent's hold on his legs change a little, his brother's head resting against England's hip. "We'd all gang up on you..." Yes! With swords and bows and spears and-! "Just relax, will you?" _No!_

"Stubborn ass..." Look who was talking! England fought to get his arm free from Ireland, hand clawing at the bedding as the boy realized sitting on the limb wasn't going to keep him safe. He moved around on the covers and wound up with his body wrapped around England's arm, ankles crossed around his wrist and head resting on his shoulder. Scotland had a grip on England's bandaged shoulder, threatening to hurt him if he tried pulling free.

He still tried, and Scotland's thumb pressed down painfully until England either had to shriek like a woman or stop acting like a child. Wankers, all of them.

If he forgave Scotland's choke-hold and ignored the fact that the arm Ireland was holding was going to lose feeling soon, England's body wasn't being twisted or bent in funny ways. Of course it was still uncomfortable to have his brothers pinning him down like this, of course his shoulder had begun to throb painfully, and of course he didn't like being this close to them and having his personal space so _thoroughly_ violated. But...

_'Damn them all...'_ But England was propped up a little against Scotland's chest. The eldest Briton carried the warm smell of pipe-smoke and the felt of his red shirt was soft where it was touching England's skin. Ireland was sweet when he stopped talking and moving around, a small green clover stuck to the boy's bright red hair that England could almost see if he tried looking down at the middle brother. Wales was out of sight but his touch was firm and warm, completely set in his ways and not about to change his mind about staying right where he was. Even if England waited for the other two to fall asleep, Wales would wake up first if he tried breaking free of them.

So he was warm, and he was being hugged on three sides... at least it felt like a hug once Scotland finally let go of the bottom half of England's face. He didn't want to give in and close his eyes but it was too hard not to. The eldest Briton just kept his hand under the youngest's chin, England trying to ignore the fact that he hadn't slept when he was inside the mansion either- nevermind the days since their escape.

He just didn't want to hurt... huh?

"What... are you doing?" England looked up sleepily, a strange sensation flowing down the back of his skull like warm water. Ireland was the one who asked the question though, England just opened his eyes to find a soft green glow filtering down over him from Scotland's raised palm.

"Sealin' a bit a his magic..." Really? It didn't feel like what he'd gone through in the mansion, not that crippling cold feeling as his power was syphoned off. This felt warm and soothing. In fact he would almost call it nice as Mint-Bunny settled on England's chest and watched. The soft click of a mental lock falling into place gave him a sense of security that England never expected.

He liked locks... locked doors to keep the Thing from getting in, locked powers to keep the monster from getting out... His brother's magic started to fade and England felt his eyes drifting shut again, the warmth around him coupling with his new-found sense of safety... To think that Scotland could do something like that...

Wait.

"Why... didn't you do that before?" Oh, heavy eyes. He wanted to ask later but then he might forget. Pushing the words out, England's eyes weren't seeing anything but he made them stay open. "Like... yesterday...?"

Scotland shrugged. Ireland picked his head up.

"Hang on a tick, how long have you known how to do that?" Oh no, not now. Not now, Ireland _please_... "How do we know you wont go lockin' all our magic on us?"

"So you're saying I could have slept last night instead of watching Iggy?" Wales' whiny voice pipped up and England shut his eyes tight as he felt Ireland getting up. Great, now his arm was cold. "Why didn't you do that the first time he blew something up?"

Please please please, just go to sleep you tossers.

"Maybe I-"

"_Maybe ain't good enough!"_ Loud.

In a word, England's family was loud. There was a good reason why he'd been so close to America for all of those years, and if the Yankee ever spent more than a few days at England's house he'd eventually figure it out. England's family was _loud._ Under the yowls of Scottish Gaelic, the fast trills of Irish, and the looping slides of Welsh the youngest Briton decided (after being dropped by Scotland, jumped on by Ireland and knocked about by Wales), that he just didn't care anymore.

"_I'm sorry, England...!"_ Oh, Mint-Bunny... He grabbed the pillow Scotland had been leaning on, pulling it under his head and curling up on his side on the bed. He turned his back on the shouts and hollering, his hand wrapped across his chest and rubbing his bandaged shoulder carefully, soothing the dull pain that came from Ireland's jumping.

"It's fine..." None of them could hear him, but that was alright. Mint-Bunny fluttered over and curled up under his chin, warm and familiar as he shut his eyes. It was loud now, not like the silent mansion with its hidden creeks and soft thumps... "They're... _family_..." And England's family was loud...

He slept soundly.

* * *

><p><strong>On the bed they formed the British Isles ;A; It was so hard to make them do it without it going dirty but I did it omg. And yes, the other Britons can see the magic friends and use magic, because I don't see why it'd just be England.<strong>

**Reposted: February 19th, 2012**


	5. Germany's Little Kisses

**Memories, 24, Higurashi, Leave out All the Rest.**

**_Doit-su! Doit-su! _Yay for Germany! Finally! This chapter is super-long just because I didn't quite know how to end it. It probably shares too much too soon, but whatever. It's mushy and sad and I love it. I also... had no bloody clue how to format it so I just left it as is because bluuuuh. Use your imagination!**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

Germany's Little Kisses

* * *

><p>"<em>Veh, Germany..."<em>

_"...?"_

"_I think... I think this story will have a happy ending."_

* * *

><p>"Hungary motions for the next..." <em>Flip-flip-flip,<em> the sound of pages turning over. "-seven pages be omitted from the reading."

"The next seven...?"

"_For Ita's sake, Austria!_"

"Sh-show of hands..." The vote was counted. The motion didn't pass unanimously but that was only because not everyone put up their hand. No one objected.

* * *

><p>Germany wanted the readings to stop. He could see what it was doing to the world nations and he wanted to cut the cancer out before it could spread. Watching the others destroy themselves slowly finally convinced him that Italy had done the right thing: he'd destroyed the journal's magic to stop his friends from killing themselves trying to save him. How could Germany sit by and watch everyone else wander down the path Italy had died trying to block?<p>

He had spoken to Prussia a few times but his big brother didn't agree with him. East said that burying the memory would bury Italy with it; he didn't understand that that should be the _point._

_'Let him die, let him finally die..._'

Japan said that he wanted to know, he wanted to have the rest of his memories unlocked.

England pointed out that Italy had given them the journal so that they _would_ read it, or at least so they could. China sided with him.

Canada wouldn't answer the question, France wouldn't let Germany push the issue.

America had adopted a rare _couldn't-care-less_ attitude and had decided that if the world wanted the memories, they could have them.

Russia took America's attitude a step further direction: he wanted the world to suffer as much as the rest of them had.

_'If there had been a reason behind it, some kind of lesson for us to learn... would that make it easier to let go of?'_ That was the problem, wasn't it? The _senselessness_ of the violence, brutality without reason or cause. The Thing hadn't even devoured their bodies after killing them, there was absolutely nothing gained from the horror.

"I'm sorry." Hm?

Germany had meant to leave the hotel and travel someplace to be with people, even if they were Switzerland's people, or Lichtenstein's, he couldn't tell the difference and he just didn't care. Germany hadn't wanted to go to the readings this morning and had shirked his uniform in favour of civilian clothes. He would explore Bern, take in the sights, drift west across the countryside- the opposite direction of the mansion.

Instead he had wandered too close to the hall doors and had heard the voice of the grimoire again. It was like a viper sinking its fangs into his hear, coiling around him like a slick rope and poisoning his flesh, corroding his spirit until he did as commanded or died trying to defy it.

He'd taken his seat, and once Hungary requested a break for lunch Germany had moved as fast as he could to escape again. He no longer tolerated being deferred from leaving rooms and buildings. If he chose to leave, he would leave, and there would be nothing to distract him from that goal. He did not mind being stopped before he had made the decision to move or after he crossed the desired threshold, but anything in between was intolerable.

So he was seated outside in the hotel garden when Hungary spoke to him. Germany had meant to leave, but the large tree had drawn him towards it. The hotel boasted walking paths and numerous water features so he was well out of sight from the guest doors, but Hungary found him seated under the large oak just the same.

Her eyes were bloodshot, her grey-brown hair hanging loose and almost tangled around her shoulders. The flower that usually rested over her ear was gone, and her pale cheeks were flushed: all evidence of tears. The white blouse she was wearing and the long red skirt didn't mean much to him, just the breathless way she made her strange apology.

"For what?" He should have stood up, but the need to do so wasn't very strong. She had come to find him, not the other way around, and Hungary had been the one reading from the jour-

Oh?

"I read it." The journal. She was holding it out to him, her hand shaking with the strain of keeping a good grip on the bloody book. "Not all, just the one page. I'm sorry." Hungary had read more than just one- "Of everything else, yes, but the pages I had struck out... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have looked at them." She jerked her arm at him, pushing the journal closer when Germany seemed unwilling to accept it. Hungary's teeth were clenched and she wasn't breathing easily.

"Ita was so, _so precious_ _to me_..." ... Hungary. "But not the way he was to you. I loved him like a little brother, or a son, but you-"

"What are you talking about?" Germany couldn't help his harsh tone, he didn't like what she was implying because she had no business implying it. He brushed the grass off his pants as he stood up slowly, determined to keep his temper in check as the hysterical woman kept pressing the book to him.

"Just take it, will you?" No. He didn't want- "He wrote those pages for you, not me! _Read them!_"

He took the book from Hungary but Germany would not read it. He would let Italy die: keeping him alive like this was cruel, it was not something to be done to a dear friend. Germany would not mar the happiness he had known with Italy with the gory details of his death...

Hungary turned and left after that, not saying another word before she vanished down along the path back towards the hotel. That left him alone with the book, and as he sat down again Germany tried to decide what he was going to do with it.

It looked like a Bible. How many times had he mistaken it for one in that hell house? It was large and leather-bound, reminiscent of England's magic book but far more sinister in nature. There was blood smeared across the front and back, staining the pages: the cover marred with the vague shape of hand-prints, the beads and dribbles of spilled blood...

He should destroy this thing now that he had it in his possession. He should remove the knife from his belt and stab the thing until its pages were nothing but tatters, the words illegible. He should set it on fire and spread the ashes in running water. If nothing else then he should take it with him to Vatican City and have Italy's God destroy it and give his soul a chance for peace.

What was going on in Italy now that Veneziano was dead? No one had seen Romano for days. He appeared at the readings, sometimes, but it wasn't clear how long he stayed or what he did with himself for the hours in between his sudden appearances. For all Germany knew, the older Italian could have left and returned several times already. He must have been keeping in contact with his house and trying to establish order at home, it wouldn't make sense for him to do anything less.

_'Even at his worst, Italy never would have let any harm come to his people. He'd have died first...'_ But now he really was dead... Would Romano be able to carry the burden? Did he have a choice? _'Now there is only one Italy...'_ Veneziano had said as much, hadn't he? Right before the end...

Germany hadn't noticed his eyes were closed until he opened them again and found himself staring at the green branches overhead, the blue sky beyond... His hand was resting over the cover of the book, his fingers tracing the old, faded indents pressed into the soft leather.

Hungary had inserted a book-mark, just a folded slip of white paper from the original World Summit: a map of the hotel and information on where to leave their luggage, meal times, etc... His finger played with the corners for a few moments before he finally pried the journal open, hating himself just a little bit for giving in.

Thin pages, almost translucent, like the fragile sheets used in a real bible. Italy's handwriting, neat, precise, elegant with the gentle movements of the pen that had scrawled the words. So much blood...

**To the Germany who-** Italy...

_'He wrote this for... me?'_

**To the Germany who lives at some point in time and who isn't alone...**

The page held that one line at the top, Italy's spiralling script flowing whimsically from one side to the other, the dark crimson catching the sun and reflecting back like a red string dancing across the page. Underneath the words, true to form, was a drawing.

Italy couldn't write something without illustrations. Even if they had nothing to do with the subject at hand, he'd draw something in the margins or insert designs in the middle of the text itself. During the war and for years after, even after things like telephones and digital communication had taken root in world culture, Germany would always receive letters from the spunky Italian, and they would always contain drawings. Italy hadn't liked drawing on computer screens at first, but with all of the advances in the last few years...

It was an iron cross. It took up most of the page and instead of being black, as it usually was, the one Italy had drawn was lined and filled with red. The four wide arms were exact in their proportions and painted equally, with no blotches or spills. The hand that had traced the silver outline was firm and had not strayed. Italy's personality was sporadic but his art was pain-staking. He was even more forgiving of bad food or botched performances than he ever was of his own art. If it wasn't perfect, it wasn't Italian...

_'There are... entire rooms of his house filled with them.'_ Paintings. Unfinished, never-meant-to-be paintings. Or sketches, or sculptures. Italy hadn't finished a piece of art that he was truly happy with in years, he had been pushing so hard to find the creativity of his Renaissance that all of the older forms had frustrated him.

Why did his final medium have to be this?

**To the Germany who lives at some point in time and who isn't alone...**

Those words marked the top of the page. The iron cross in the centre filled up most of it. And then down, tucked under the corner of the cross, almost forgotten at the bottom...

**I loved you too.**

Italy...

* * *

><p>He sat like that for a long time, not moving, not touching the page in front of him. Germany didn't want to do anything, not think or remember or come up with an act or opinion. He just wanted to sit.<p>

Did he like Italy as a friend? Of course.

Did he love Italy as a friend? Yes.

Did he love Italy as a companion? Again, yes.

Was the love he felt romantic? Was it more than friendship? Was it higher than the bond between brothers and allies? How much higher?

He didn't want to think about those things. Those lost things. Germany just wanted to sit. He kept his hands under the journal, cradling the book in his palms as if it had somehow become precious to him, not vulgar and hated.

He closed his eyes again, trying not to look down at the cross painted on the page. He didn't want to see it, not because of God, but because God had nothing to do with it. He knew why Italy had drawn it: it was a symbol of their pact together. He had given his iron cross to the little Italian to symbolize the Pact of Steel. The formal alliance had fallen through after only four years, but the spirit...

_'In my house we kiss the holy cross like this! See? Just like that!'_

Their friendship had lasted for over seventy...

_'Kiss it! Kiss it! God doesn't mind, Germany! He likes it! Vatican says so and I believe him! But Vatican is scary sometimes, so if you ever come to my house make sure you're not alone with him... And if you come then Romano and I will-'_

What an idiot... Germany's eyes were focused on the symbol in front of him, the memory of Italy's voice prattling on in the back of his mind. If he stopped and tried not to think, then he was almost certain he felt his friend's presence behind him. Knowing Italy he was probably reclining against the other side of the tree with a sketch pad in his lap, drawing, or on his belly letting the sun pour down over his shoulders as he kicked his feet like a child. Or he was sleeping, it was the right time of day for one of his siestas...

Kiss the cross? He'd rejected the idea the first time, simply walked away from the situation and refused to tolerate Italy's flamboyance. It didn't seem so foolish now, or at least not to the point of total rejection.

Lifting the book up carefully, Germany bent his head down a little. He didn't breathe in, didn't want to know what kind of scent the pages had picked up, he just brushed his lip over the red design and...

He saw light?

* * *

><p>And then it was dark, and Germany was standing and he didn't know where he was. He felt hands on him though, a pair of hands holding his sides while his own arms were folded gently around a warm body. Hair- a head pressed up under his chin, soft warm breaths blocked by the collar of his uniform and spreading across his shoulder instead. It was so quiet...<p>

The room formed slowly, and not all the way. He knew there were people there with him, at least four others, and except for the one he was holding they were all asleep. The door was locked and the only light was the shy moon looking in through the window, her glow hardly enough to show him more than than the sleeping bodies resting on the floor. Sleeping. Not dead.

**...You don't remember. **

That _voice_...

**It's okay. You thought I was upset over what happened to Japan, that I was disturbed over the way we found him. I guess you were right, but, I was still trying to get over what had happened the time before too.**

Italy's voice, a whisper against his chest that made Germany wrap his arms a little tighter around the hidden figure in front of him.

**I didn't tell you that though. I don't think I would have even if you hadn't kissed me... You were so freaked out. Even in the dark I could tell and it was... it was cute...**

_Cshuk..._ the sound of paper whispering, the page turning.

**Oh! Don't let Miss Hungary read this, it would be so embarrassing!**

Light again, and this time with white walls and toppled books piled in the floor around them. Germany was standing with his hands planted firmly on the wall, his black gloves stark in contrast with Italy's red hair and blue uniform, the dark stain of blood running down the Italian's arm, down to the leather book held in his hand. He wasn't pinning the other nation to the wall but Italy was still standing with his shoulders pressed against it, one hand up and his fingertips pressed over his mouth. Germany knew his own stance without having to hear Italy explain- his feet were spread, shoulders hunched, head forward: he'd been shouting.

**Because**_** "You think I don't care, you idiot? Of course I care!"**_** is what you said.**

Italy moved his fingers enough so Germany could hear him, his voice quiet but not whispering. He wouldn't lift his head though, and Germany felt like if he moved either of his hands he'd lose his balance and drop to the floor.

**I was... I was shocked that you'd done it again. I mean- I was happy, but...**

"Italy-" Fingers that had touched Italy's lips pressed down over Germany's, those long fingers meant for holding pens and brushes, chisels and batons. His throat felt tight and his cheeks flushed darkly as Italy's touch traced his lips gently, grazing his skin as he felt himself being drawn down, pulled closer. He tilted his head just so to the right, Italy's eyes still hidden behind his bangs as his parted lips rose up just a little, lining up just so they could-

**But right after that, you...**

Pain tore up his back, blood splashing across the floor at his feet. Italy's arms hooked under his shoulders and Germany felt himself falling, saw the sinister shadow on the wall that meant they'd been found, that the library had not been safe. The Italy holding him didn't make any sound, but Germany knew that there had been screaming, he could feel the air rushing out of the chest he collapsed against, the tremors shaking Italy's body.

Everything faded to black.

**We didn't make a mistake like that again and I'm thankful for it. I think it's either because you maybe remembered the first time, or I just sent out the wrong signals whenever I thought you might. I'm not sure, I've gotten better at reading the atmosphere but at the time I still wasn't very good at it.**

**I didn't want you to touch me after that time though. Can you blame me?**

The upper bathroom, the one with the large tub. Germany could feel the key pressed against his palm where he was clenching it tightly, the door secure behind him. He knew that France was standing guard in the hall with America, and that Prussia had just-

He didn't want to think about Prussia. He focused on Italy instead, looking over at where the red-head was seated on the edge of the tub. His blue uniform was dark all along the left side, blood coming down from his torn shoulder (opposite the one from the previous memory). He was still clutching that Bible, rocking back and forth slightly as his breaths hissed painfully past his teeth.

And again, Veneziano wouldn't look at him. Whatever he had spoken originally was gone, because all Germany heard was:

**After I went through enough loops I stopped getting hurt so often, so I was stunned when the Thing cut me as badly as it did. I remember you yelling at me again, saying "_Why did it go after you, Italy? Why did Prussia have to protect you? Tell me what's going on!"_ And I almost did. I really, really wanted to tell you that time.**

He wanted Italy to take off the uniform so he could look at his shoulder, but the Italian just shook his head. Germany pressed the issue: Italy was bleeding too much. If Prussia had died for him then he couldn't be careless with his life!

Italy looked up, his light brown eyes holding tears, but not letting them fall. His teeth were locked but the grimace pulling at his face showed how much pain he was in. When he spoke, that other voice came out past his lips, the calm tone in direct conflict with the sobbing breaths and desperate eyes staring at him.

**I didn't think you were being inappropriate when you asked me to undress. I know you better than that. I was scared because I didn't know how to ask for what I wanted. So when you-**

Germany marched forward and roughly took Italy by the collar, dragging the other nation to his feet and startling him so he dropped the bible to the floor. He undid the belt holding Italy's tunic closed, pushing away the hands that tried to fight him off and forcing him to shed the stained blue. He tossed the jacket into the tub behind them, one hand still clenched around his friend's injured arm and holding on tightly as he pointed harshly at the blue tie. Italy swallowed hard, a few of his tears coming free down his red cheeks, but he just nodded and started tugging on the knot, releasing the bright blue tie around his throat.

Germany marched past him and knelt by the tub, turning on the water and dragging the officer's tunic through the flow to begin rinsing away the blood.

**When you- ah, took matters into your own hands, I did what you said... sort of.**

The blue tie wasn't dirty, but Italy's black shirt followed the tunic into the water, Germany plugging the tub so the two items could soak. He didn't move again though, not until he felt a warm touch at the side of his face. Hesitant, careful, slow. Italy pulled his fingers back quickly when Germany looked up at him, not sure what his face looked like as the Italian's revealed tenderness, then loss.

**So I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable-**

Moments of affection punctuated by Germany forgetting everything. Maybe Germany really had remembered more than he thought, or maybe what he felt was just so poorly concealed that it only took so much to bring it out. Each time.

The blood staining Italy's arm was ugly and disturbing, he could smell it as he stood up and they met each other. He couldn't feel Italy's skin through his gloves but wrapped one arm around his waist, Veneziano's injured arm staying down while the other hooked under Germany's shoulder. It was a clumsy affair. Germany didn't know what he was doing and tried to stop- but Veneziano followed him when he took a step back, and again and again until he ran out of space to retreat and he found himself trapped between the Italian and the wall.

-**but I know you kind of liked it too, right?**

Maybe trapped was an overstatement, maybe he was more upset over Italy's wounds and Prussia's fate than the lips pressed against his and the strangely familiar taste on his tongue. He had slept next to this strange little country hundreds of times before, so the smell of Italy's skin was not new to him. He already knew the texture of his auburn hair but Germany still resented the gloves wrapped around his hands as he held the back of Italy's head.

It was a first, second and third kiss that didn't feel like a first, second, or third kiss. They felt more like the ninth, or the sixteenth, or the fortieth, or it felt like there had simply been too many to count.

Too many loops, too many repetitions, why did they all have to end the same way?

**So please know that I mean it when I say I loved you.**

Germany cleaned and bandaged Italy's wounded shoulder. He wrung out the wet shirt and helped him with his jacket when the material became ungainly with the water still trapped inside: there was no way to dry either piece.

He touched the iron cross resting against Italy's chest before the smaller nation buttoned the collar and fixed his tie in place to hide it. Veneziano touched his face carefully with one hand and leaned up again, whispering...

**Because even as I write this, I love you.**

Fade to black.

Back to life. The safe room- what safe room? Almost no one was there but there wasn't that sense of fear and loss permeating the air. Germany was seated at a bedside and Japan was across from him, standing over Italy who's sleeping face showed pain. Japan was saying something quickly, hands gripping Italy's shoulders and speaking in a panic.

"_Italy! Italy!" _Fear over how Japan was reacting, sadness over Italy's condition- and then suddenly a conflicting flood of shock and relief as Italy's hand shot up and grasped Japan's wrist.

**Even after you betrayed me, I-**

The small man on the bed jerked and spasmed once under the covers, his mouth open as he gasped for breath and then clutched his heart, his neck snapping up as his knees rose and were held back by the bedding. Italy's brown eyes flew open and Germany was there to wrap an arm around his shoulders so he didn't drop back onto the mattress in a heap, slowly helping him sit up while Japan suddenly let go and turned away, hiding whatever emotions were marring his face.

**-still forgave you. So don't-**

Feliciano (who?) was panicking, fighting against the bedding and Ludwig's hold- screaming in Italian. Kiku (what?) immediately hurried back over to them, calling for Francis and Gilbert (those names...). Arthur was demanding to know what was going on but Ludwig unable to turn around and answer the blind Englishman- and then Alfred and Matthew started yelling as well.

Pain exploded under his jaw and Ludwig was knocked straight back, hitting the floor in a heap as it took him three, four dazed seconds to realize Feli had just punched him. _Hard._

**-forget that I love you.**

The Italian was up and out of the bed, fighting off Kiku's hold and still screaming hysterics in a language none of them could translate fast enough to understand him. The Japanese man lost his grip and Feliciano stumbled, his blue jacket in one hand where he'd scraped it off the bed, but his other hand was pointing straight at Ludwig, and he was still shouting.

Ludwig didn't need to understand Italian. The gestures, the tone of voice, the way Feliciano's eyes were burning behind the tears, the message was universal: he was a bastard and he owed the Italian an explanation for what he'd done. It was unforgivable, whatever it was.

**Because I-**

Holy Rome. Holy Rome was what Feliciano called him three, four, five times in his tirade. English broke through the furious Italian and spots of German splattered the floor, but Ludwig was still dumb-struck by it all and struggling to stand up again. Alfred was there to help him, but as soon as the American laid a hand on him Feliciano, who had stopped to breathe, flared up again.

Arthur had to grab anything that would be useful for them while Matthew and Francis were told to to pack up whatever food they could carry. Where were Antonio and Lovino? They had to find Ivan and Yao- and if Kiku didn't let go of Feliciano's shirt _right now_ he threatened to do something that didn't translate from Italian, but didn't have to.

There was no explanation for any of it, but Feliciano's pale body was shaking so hard he wound up down on one knee struggling to breathe. The others, nervous, started doing what he said and left Gilbert and Ludwig standing there, trying to figure out what was happening.

Holy Rome had betrayed him, and that was all Feliciano was willing to say.

**-love you.**

Twelve seconds later, the safe-room door came under attack from the outside.

**And I'm sorry.**

Eighteen after that, the monsters were inside.

-.-

The sunlight was cold, the August breeze was hot, the grass under Germany's legs was dry and prickly, while the tree trunk behind his back felt wet and muddy. There was sweat on his brow as he dropped the journal to the ground and struggled to stand up, shaking as he braced his legs carefully and slowly rose.

_'Someone tricked him...?'_ Tricked Italy into revealing the location of the safe-room. _'Someone wearing my face...?'_ Because he remembered Italy making that mistake more than once, calling him part of a name that didn't belong to him: Holy Rome. Who was...?

_'And then all of us, we...'_ He couldn't remember what happened after that. He didn't know what came next. The events all felt jumbled out of order though, why had Italy written this declaration here of all places? How could he have referenced events that he hadn't already recorded yet? Why had Italy been in that bed, what had been happening to them? Where had Spain, Romano, Russia and China all vanished to before the attack took place? All of those names, weren't they from that scroll China had been given?

And those creatures... Germany remembered enough of the time he'd spent building the safe-house, he remembered dying again and again trying to keep it a secret from the monsters, making sure that if there was ever a way of keeping them from finding the door, he'd do it. He'd tested it so many times, the door and the incredibly narrow hall that led to the stairs- you could only be so big to get through, Germany and Russia had both had the tightest fit, Canada too sometimes when he forgot to duck.

All he knew was... all he hoped was... that the Italy from the bed, the one who had watched as the safe room Germany had built was torn apart by monsters, was the last one. It was all he could hope for anymore, that the Italy who had endured the worst of the heartache was the last Italy. That the Italy who had appeared at the door of the music room and shot England was the last Italy. That the one who had written this message to him, this confession, this apology, was the last Italy.

There could be no more Italys after him, there just couldn't be...

* * *

><p><strong>I know Germany says in-game that he's 'tested' the door, but I was always under the impression that Steve didn't even know where they were to begin with, otherwise a very serious Steve would probably just camp out and beat it down. Locked doors stop him, but by part 17 time is getting seriously messed up by Romano and Spain being way off in the past, so I can see him turning his super-strength on that industrial door- <em>if<em> he knew where it was.**

**Reposted: February 19th, 2012**


	6. Spain's Honest Concerns

**Desert Rose, Dark Hetalia, England, Higurashi.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

Spain's Honest Concerns

Now Spain was freaking out. Not to the point of hysteria, but the anxiety was really starting to get to him.

The readings continued and the journal finally started giving up more and more of its secrets. Spain had been seriously considering mimicking Romano and skipping out to avoid the depressing sessions, but then they reached the last quarter and, well... wow.

_'We were there, we were there, we were there...'_ There. In the house. The death house, the cursed lot... Spain and Romano had been there and North Italy had seen them, it had given the poor nation something akin to a heart attack. Veneziano had woken up and written in the journal with only broken memories to lead him along. They'd been in that _house_...

They were getting close to the end of the journal now. Romano had to know about this. Spain had to tell him. He had to start going to the readings again and he had to-

"I'm sorry, but it seems Mr. Italy has checked out."

"_¿ __¡__Qué! ?_" That little bastard! "_South_ Italy is gone? Romano _left?_" The man at the front desk gave Spain a stupid look, then checked the computer screen again, scanning the hotel registry.

"Yes, sir. The representative from South Italy left yesterday." _Yesterday! ?_

"He didn't even tell me! He should have at least told me!" After that Spain was left with nothing else to do but wander the hotel like a madman, anxiety running off his shoulders and following him like a cloud of dread.

Should he leave too then? Go to Italy and give Romano a good shake to get the southern peninsula to snap him out of his stupor? Because that was what Romano had been falling into over the last few days. Not talking to nobody, not getting into fights, no temper, no appetite- not even for fresh vine-ripened tomatoes! It wasn't normal- it just wasn't right!

But if he left then all he'd have to say to Romano was _"Hey, you and I were pretty ballsy jumping into that pit after your brother went all circus master on his friends."_ And that wouldn't end well. He had to stay and figure out what had happened after they entered the house, because as it stood now Spain's mind was too tangled up and confused with a dozen other orders of events for him to put it right. He knew he'd been in there though, he finally understood why his grasp of the mansion on the inside seemed so much firmer than what everybody else described.

_They'd been inside that house..._

_'I don't even know what that kid needs from me. Distance? Companionship? A distraction from everything? Or does he just need to be alone right now to focus on everything and get through it?'_ This sucked, it did more than suck, it was gut-wrenching and heart-breaking and just all around terrible. Because Spain didn't even have to hear the rest of the current loop, he already knew how part of it was going to end. If Spain had been in the house, then he'd died there.

And Romano had died there.

And Veneziano had watched it happen.

_'All of his friends and then his only real brother? France doesn't count, I mean, he's a cool guy and all but he just... Huh?'_ Oh, speak of the devil...

France stepped out into the hall just ahead of Spain's wanderings, the Parisian wearing a dark blue pin-stripe shirt open over a white tee underneath, a pair of simple black slacks and brown shoes finishing the outfit. It was surprisingly casual of him, but judging by the tangled look of his yellow hair and the way he was pinching the bridge of his long nose with one hand, Europe's favourite flirt wasn't interested in wooing anyone right now.

"_Hola_, France." Spain hadn't really spoken to him since... well, might as well try it now. He tried to make his voice sound a little more cheerful than he really felt, sticking his hands in his pockets and trying to stand a bit straighter as the other Romance nation noticed him.

"Ah... _salut..."_ Wow, he sounded worse than Spain felt, maybe France wasn't the person to talk to right now... But when he saw his old friend and rival offer a tired smile, Spain decided to stick around.

"How're you holding up?" They'd known each other for a long time, they'd fought one another, joined forces together, fought over territory and traded lucratively, cheated each other when they could and given charity when it mattered. They'd been neighbours for centuries so Spain wasn't shy about dragging an arm around France's shoulders and clapping the blond on the back, trying to show some support.

"As well as can be expected, _savez-vous?_" And France didn't seem to mind the contact. This close up it was clear that the other nation hadn't been sleeping well, he looked sick and exhausted. "_Mon petite cher,_ Canada, he isn't doing so well..." Really? How-? "_Oui_, but I don't know why. I try to get America to talk to him and he just walks away instead, and I can't get to _Angleterre _without that Scottish brute getting in the way... Not that I blame him..." That was a dark thing to say...

"Canada is two cultures mixed together, _si?_" So support from just one half wasn't going to be enough? The nations were recovering the more they spent time around their families; France felt better around Canada and his former colonies like Camroon, Lybia, Haiti, and the others. England needed the other Britons and the Commonwealth, China and Japan were keeping close quarters with their siblings (and Greece?). "Eh, then how is America doing so well?"

"You think he's doing well, _mon ami?_ Have you seen him?" Not really, no. "Pale, pale, and so angry! I tell you I won't feel completely well until I go home again and see my people and breathe my French air, but if America won't speak to his brother then Canada may lose all of his English before he goes home." Huh, was that even possible? "You weren't- well, I guess you _were _there..."

"Only the once, that I can think of." Please let it just be the once. "What were you saying?" France had a deep, contemplative look on his face for a moment, the two of them walking like chums down the hall, headed nowhere in particular. As soon as he asked his question the Francophone put his smile back on- crooked though it was.

"Do you remember that feeling of being... severed?" Severed? "Cut off, removed- I don't know any more English words for it." There probably weren't too many, but Spain understood what the other nation was referencing.

"The sensation of becoming... human..." Becoming mortal, insubstantial, temporary... Vaguely, yes, he remembered it. Not very strongly, not the actual moment and the physical reaction his body had to being cut off from his people, but Spain remembered the intense fear and anxiety that had consumed his mind. "We should send him on his way home then, if he's not getting better here." Switzerland was quite far from Canada, much further than France or England or Russia- maybe China and Japan should think about going home as soon as they could too.

"He doesn't want to, not yet." Whaaat? Make sense, France! Didn't _he_ want to go home? "_B___ien sûr!___ But that came with time, only after I had recovered as magnificently as I have_!" Magnificent? With his pale face and sunken eyes, France's grip on Spain felt like it was something keeping the other nation standing. The more Spain focused on it, the more he thought he saw his friend beginning to shake a little, like there was some kind of weakness striking him. When France spoke again, his voice was unnaturally shy.

"Imagine the shame of it, _mon ami_, to appear before your people and your government as a shadow of what you once were..." Injured in body and bearing a crippled mind, what would that feel like? Spain decided to withhold the comments he'd considered about France's condition, they wouldn't help. "I did not suffer like _Italie_ or _Angleterre,_ _non_, but..." But he'd still suffered... They'd all suffered.

"I'm worried about Romano..." It didn't feel like Spain was changing the subject, but he knew he was and he hoped France wouldn't begrudge him a moment to speak. "He's not talking to anyone, he's already left..."

"Without hearing the rest of the story?" To be honest, Spain didn't know if Romano really _needed_ to have it read out to him. "You know... I remember speaking to _Italie_, I remember him wondering if Romano had been the one to take the memories he had lost..." Huh...

"Do you remember if that was true or not?" France shrugged, the two of them having let go of one another, coming to a stop in the corridor next to a wide window. France was leaning on the sill, staring out at the green gardens and walking paths below them. Watching his blue eyes drift to the latch on the pane, Spain reached out and opened the window for his friend, aware of the relief that spread over France's face as he took a deep breath of the sweet summer air.

"Of everyone in that mansion, _Espagne_, do you really think _I'm_ the one Romano would confide in?" France said it with a wink, but it was a tired, worn down expression. He was right though: Romano would have either stuck with his brother or come to Spain himself to talk about something like that. Which made it all the more frustrating that Spain remembered nothing of the sort, not yet.

"I remember speaking with him alone in the library. I don't know what we talked about, but it was important to him..." And then something had happened to cut off their conversation, something had happened to Romano... Was that when he'd died? "England was there." How strange...

"... Come with me**_."_** Hm? Where?

France pushed away from the window and started walking back the way they'd come, Spain following with his hands in his pockets again, unconsciously trying to make sure France didn't look like he was about to pitch over and drop to the floor. They didn't say much as they passed a ghostly looking Belgium in the hall, or an awkward Cambodia. When they reached France's room the other nation lifted a hand a knocked twice, waiting outside for a moment before a tall, unexpected figure opened up for them.

_'Netherlands?'_ The blond's hair was brushed up high over his head, his green eyes looking oddly cold as he seemed to fill the entire door with his presence. His tie was undone and hanging around his neck, his jacket missing from earlier as he'd rolled up his white sleeves to the elbows.

Um. France and Holland didn't really get along, so why-?

"Is he doing any better?" Oh, but Canada and the northerner were on the best terms with one another, that was why Netherlands stepped out of the way with just a small grunt to answer France's question. The two Romance nations walked inside and were immediately greeted with a warm, starchy smell.

"I-I hope you like them!_" _Hey! What was Ukraine doing here? The busty woman with Russia's grey hair and a shy disposition was standing nervously in front of the room's television, her hands twitching frantically over her stomach. The adolescent Republic of Cyprus was sitting on one of the room's two beds, and his younger brother the _Turkish_ Republic of _Northern_ Cyprus was next to him, the child kicking his feet back and forth as he ignored Spain and France's arrival, focusing instead on the country both brothers were there to see.

Canada wasn't wearing the thick jacket and goggles he'd had with him throughout every loop, just a red sweater now with a white maple leaf in the front, a pair of grey sweat pants not matching but not clashing with the red. No shoes, just white socks. He had the red hood up over his blond hair, a plate of small, funny looking white rolls balanced on one hand. They looked like they'd been fried in a pan, Ukraine was watching wide-eyed as Canada's fingers dipped one of the little potato-filled packets into a pile of sour-cream and bit into it. Spain couldn't see most of his face, but he recognized from the quiet nomming sound and the way Canada licked the grease off his fingers that he was enjoying his meal.

"_Merci beaucoup, Ukraine."_ Spoken between bites, Spain didn't find the smell very appealing but wisely held his tongue. If Ukraine had left her brother's side to bring food to Canada, then he wasn't going to do anything to upset her. "_Il a un gout..."_

"English!" The smaller Cyprus piped up, tugging on the larger nation's sleeve. This only prompted Canada to offer the plate over to the island nations, who both wrinkled their noses at the maple-drizzled meal. Of course Canada would add maple syrup to his food...

"He'll speak it when he wants to." Holland broke in, shaking his head a bit at Turkish Cyprus and folding his arms as he leaned against the wall next to Ukraine. As for Ukraine herself, the central European had finally noticed that Spain and France were there and suddenly started trembling and looking scared- but it was probably just her nerves.

"Um! Um I-" She looked flustered, but Spain was surprised when Ukraine suddenly straightened her shoulders and puffed up a little. "I know you think my food smells bad and doesn't taste good!" Oh- um, was she talking to France? She had to be, Spain hadn't done anything! Ukraine stuck a hand at Canada, pointing at him where the country had stopped with another perogy half-way to his lips, watching them now. "But he likes it! And- and I'm going to make _Holubsti_ for my brother and I'm going to bring some for Canada too! And you can't stop me, because he's my friend and- and he's _so skinny!_" Sh-she wasn't going to start _kolkol_ing at them, was she!-?

"My dear, Ukraine_,_ you misunderstand!" France had his hands up in surrender, a nervous twitch to his face. "I never said you _couldn't_ bring Canada food: I said he might not eat very much! His stomach is not good when he-"

"_Mais papa!" _Canada's voice was almost quiet enough to be ignored, but still interrupted France's explanation. "_Nourriture de ma mère est toujours aussi-" _Something- the food his mother makes-?

"_Mère!-?__"_ Spain was pretty sure everyone, including himself, repeated the word in the same loud voice, but while Ukraine suddenly adopted a star-struck expression and the Cypruses looked confused... France looked down right horrified, instantly demanding:_ "Depuis quand est-elle votre __mère?__-! Canada!"_ It was a good question! Spain had never heard anyone call Ukraine their mother!

"It's no use, France..." Spain could only offer condolences as France's former colony was scooped up into Ukraine's arms, patting his friend on the shoulder. "He got your hair, but her stomach. There's nothing you can do." Canada's plate was almost empty, but the last of his fried dumplings were in danger of tipping over as the older country got her arms around his head and squeezed him tight. He was blushing terribly, but Ukraine was cooing to him in her own language like she'd just found a cute kitten in her garden.

"So, uh, why did you bring me back here?" Spain asked the question because he'd finally noticed the fact that Holland was staring at him, clearly wondering the same thing. France wasn't willing to change the subject just yet, still frantically trying to understand that he was looking at a nation who had combined his looks with England's politics and Ukraine's sense of taste... but as Spain gave the other nation a little shake, the Frenchman woke up.

"Ah... well... Canada was given a task." France seemed to be trying to muster up every ounce of self-control it took not to claw Ukraine off of Canada- every other nation that claimed a piece of the young state's identity just watered down his influence, didn't it? "Weren't you, _mon chéri?"_

"_Tâche, papa? Ah- __s'il vous plaît-!"_ Canada really didn't seem to want to switch back to what was usually his dominant language, but he finally started resisting Ukraine's nuzzles. He talked her off of him before the large woman retreated back a short ways and clasped her hands in front of her, tiny pink hearts still fluttering through the air. He tried licking the last of the grease off his fingers before finally resorting to a napkin Spain hadn't seen next to him on the bed, and looked over at the two Romance nations.

"_Oui_, the..." France started with a chirp but his voice quickly died in his throat, the blond's hand flipping through the air like he could conjure up the words. "For Romano..." That seemed to be the best France could come up with, but while Spain didn't understand the Canadian on the bed certainly did, his eyes darkening suddenly as his innocent expression fell into something more depressed. France reacted immediately.

"Romano has left and Spain is worried, I wouldn't bring it up otherwise..." The Francophone crossed the room quickly and knelt in front of his former colony, hands on Canada's shoulders. The other nation had his eyes closed though, not looking at anyone in the room.

It was so weird, Canada had looked fine a moment ago but now he was closing in on himself, pulling his shoulders up like he was trying to hide, his knees tight together and rising as well. It looked almost like he was trying to disappear... Cyprus dropped off the bed and moved over towards Ukraine, the eastern nation coming out of her little day-dreams and frowning sadly over at the pair. He didn't know exactly why the sympathy seemed directed at both Canada and France equally, but Spain stepped up so he could see the younger country a little better.

"Look, I know we don't-"

And just like that, there was a line and Spain had crossed it. It was like a bank alarm or a hidden border: one second he was fine and then in the next he'd done something terribly wrong. Spain didn't even get to finish his comment before France was on his feet again and facing him, arms spread defensively and an irate look on his face.

"_Don't touch him!"_ Woah! He wasn't- "I was wrong. He can't talk to you now, so you have to leave!"

"France- France I didn't do anything!" Spain put his hands up in front of him calmly, showing that he meant no harm. Why the over-reaction? Why wasn't France calming down?

"_Sortez!" _Alright! He was going!

A tug at his shirt, and despite France's sudden hostility Spain looked down to see Turkish Cyprus standing there with a defeated look on his small face.

"We have to go now." The child was obviously upset by this, but his brother placed one hand on his shoulder and Spain looked up at the older half of the island.

"It's normal, just come."

Holland had already found his jacket and Ukraine was holding Canada's abandoned plate, sniffling softly as the five of them were rudely ejected from the suite. Spain was still stunned, he didn't understand how one second everything had been find and in the next- literally the very next, he was out here.

And he didn't understand how none of the others found this weird. Netherlands just folded his arms again and leaned back against the wall next to the door- the exact same position he'd been in while still inside. Both Cypruses crossed the hall and then turned around to sit on the floor, legs crossed while the younger, unrecognized Republic pulled a small juice box out from somewhere and started sucking on the apple drink.

"I... should go check on my brother." Ukraine said softly, still obviously upset as she looked down at the sour-cream and maple smears on the plate she was holding. Spain felt awkward as the soft-spoken woman looked over at Netherlands and spoke to him instead, clearly sensing authority. "I'll bring Canada something later, okay?"

"Mm. If he's up for it, sure." And then Ukraine hurried away, huffing and puffing trying to keep her emotions in check. It wasn't a mystery who Spain should turn to for answers, Cyprus looked like he was getting ready to take a nap and the younger republic was content with his juice. Besides, Holland had known Canada longer than any of them...

And he was, uh, sort of staring at Spain. More like glaring.

"What happened in there?" It was his fault, clearly, although Spain thought it was a little unfair to go tossing _all_ of the blame on him. The tall blond just kept his arms folded, green eyes staring accusingly at Spain... then he relented.

"When Canada thinks about Italy, he goes dark. Dark and angry." Italy..? So that meant Veneziano had asked Canada to do something about Romano? "And when Canada goes dark, France falls apart." Falls apart...

_'In the journal France is always either with Canada or England, isn't he?'_ It was rare for the Francophone to be mentioned with someone else, or in a group that didn't include either of those two. Prussia had been there too, but more often than not the East German had wound up with his brother or Japan rather than in a position to stick near his other friend. France had a rival and son to rely on, and most of the time that was it. _'I guess seeing Canada like that... it brings up too many memories.'_ Canada needed someone to rely on and France had always been the only person- with the possible exception of America, who at every world meeting knew exactly who he was without having to wonder.

And now that they were free of the mansion and he was separated from his other family members, England and America, Canada was hiding behind his French heritage. He hadn't said a word in English while Spain was there and he'd probably been that way for days. As soon as Canada's trauma began to show itself, France's followed suit. It was more than just anxiety about closed windows or a longing to wade ankle-deep in the Seine river: France was just as broken as the rest of them...

"I'm sorry then."

"Mm." Holland wasn't very talkative. Spain found it petty that the big guy was still resentful of their history together, but he, again, knew better than to say as much.

When had he become so good at reading the atmosphere?

"I won't bring it up again, I think I'll just track Romano down in Rome instea-"

"When they came back, Canada handed a bundle of letters to South Italy." Spain was shocked to hear the northerner speak to him, cutting himself off and biting his tongue to keep the questions inside. He just stared at the other country and listened for anything else he had to say. There was nothing.

"I see..." Then he had no reason to bother Canada again, not until he could find and speak to Romano. Maybe seeing South Italy and talking to _him_ might help settle the North American's nerves a little. Or getting his brother on board, America must have been taking this all just as badly as the rest...

"_Gracias, __Señor _Netherlands."

"_Ga weg, Meneer _Spain_."_

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Removed most of the translations except for France screaming <strong>**"Since when is she your _mother!-?_" ****at Canada******. ******The last line is Dutch for**** "Go away, Mr. Spain."

****The sheer amount of Eastern European food that you find across Canada convinced me that a Canada in need of comfort would definitely see Ukraine as a mother/big-sister figure. Lets face it, Polish and Ukranian food is eaten EVERYWHERE.****

****Why're the Cypruses in Canada's room? I got it from reading about Canada's role in the UN Peacekeeping mission on their island. Cyprus and TRNC's ages come from the Hetalia Archives.****

****Reposted: February 24********th********, 2012****


	7. China's Special Name

**My Heart is Broken, End of the Dream, Never Go Back, Secret Door.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

China's Special Name

* * *

><p>"<em>Yao, take these."<em>

"_What did you-? No! I'm only going through with this plan because I want out of here, I'm not carrying your shit!"_

"_Even if it tells you why I know your human name?"_

"_...That doesn't mean I'll believe you." But he took them anyways._

_-.-_

Every nation had a human name, but they weren't something to pass around or share with others- not your friends, not your lovers, not even your family. Only citizens of the purest stock could hear a nation's human name, nevermind use it. For centuries China's human name had been as sacred as the Emperor's face. The younger nations of today weren't quite so strict with theirs, but the taboo remained: you did not share your human name.

When China, free from the mansion, finally unrolled one of the two scrolls Italy had given him he'd been confused. One was a list of things to do at Japan's house, but the other was just a series of names- until China suddenly, to his absolute horror, recognized his human name sitting amongst them. His name. His _sacred_ name, had been written_ by his own hand _in a public place, amongst nations he worked with but was only tentatively able to call his friends. And family? Japan had been his family, his little brother, but then that nation had _attacked _and _invaded_ him- and not just once!

Japan was his friend, but not even Hong Kong could know China's human name. And Korea, who was a(n imbecile) beloved younger brother, even he and Vietnam had never, _ever_ earned China's trust on that level. It simply wasn't done.

Without having endured the torturous experience of reading and having the journal read to him, China had been skeptical of everything that happened to him. He was too old to go running off playing make-believe, too many times betrayed to trust everything that was said or inferred, or half-remembered.

The treaty changed that. And the readings confirmed what the treaty told him, they made the sense of violation go away. The scroll went from being something he wanted to burn and deny into something sacred to him, a sheet of paper he would gladly defend with the lives of his own people.

He, The People's Republic of China. He, Yao Wang, had forged a bond of friendship so strong with eleven other nations- eleven other _men_, that he had revealed the deepest secret of his existence. It was something he cried on Korea's shoulder over, and he hid his face in Vietnam's lap as she sang him and soothed the anxiety. The revelation was as welcome as it was revolting, but it was undeniable proof that everything he _thought_ had happened to him was fact, not western fiction.

So he slept to try and find peace with this. He slept and he dreamed of the Forbidden City and the Three Gorges Dam, of New Years Cakes and hot dim sum. But more than anything he longed for his people. The nightmare was over but China still hadn't woken up yet. He wanted to go home, he wanted to hear voices in Mandarin, Uyghur, Zhuang, and any other language that could be found on the streets of Beijing, or Jinan, or Nanping or even Lishui. He didn't care. He just wanted to go _home..._

But... He couldn't leave these _friends_...

China had only been able to speak to Japan and Russia since their return, but they had both agreed with him when he suggested that the Treaty be given to Germany. The second scroll from Italy was going to go home with Japan- at China's insistence. It was a fanciful list of things to do in his homeland after all, and it was only right that both of the remaining Axis powers receive something Italy had come up with for their mutual well-being. China would convince the others to go along with it, it was only right.

And really, all this talk of names had made China realize something. Yes, his name had been given to eleven other people but... had anything _bad_ happened as a result? If the journal was anything to go by then no, if anything it had provided them with a way of telling themselves apart from their earlier incarnations. The Emperor had shown his face and the sun had still dawned and set in the sky, the Yangtze still flowed, and the gods were not offended...

There was power in names... but wasn't that only because they were kept secret to begin with?

China wasn't quite at the point of being alright if his fellow nations, or even his own _family_ suddenly started calling him _Yao_, but he was old enough to recognize that fretting over it would do him no good. He couldn't think of a single sinister thing to do with "Gilbert" or "Ivan" or "Arthur", so what did he have to fear? If anything, it was making him curious about what _Korea's_ human name was...

_Hmm..._

"Um... Um I don't know if this is right..." Hmm? Distracted from what had almost been a smile in Korea's direction, China looked up at the front of the hall again and sharply reprimanded himself for his distraction. He had to pay attention to Latvia's reading- hadn't the little Baltic state already tried his hand at the grimoire? They couldn't have gone through the entire world already, they'd only been at this for a week...

"If you don't feel capable, Latvia..." Austria's voice, it was just barely filtering through the speakers where the aristocratic European was standing near Latvia's shaking form. The younger nation just shook his head briskly at the suggestion though.

"No no! It's just, I... n-nevermind! I'll read!" China admitted silently that _he_ wanted to read what was written, but every time he tried to muster up the courage to ask his words failed him. He wasn't like Japan who seemed incapable of speech, or America who had nothing nice to say to anyone. China didn't fly into a rage at the smallest infraction like France or go dark and silent like Canada, he wasn't as gawky and awkward as Spain. He didn't have Prussia's weak and weepy constitution or Germany's fear of his own shadow. He wasn't being muzzled by his brothers like England or keeping his followers chained to him like Russia, and he hadn't gone AWOL like Romano...

China _giggled_. It was embarrassing, but he couldn't help himself. He'd walk up to Austria or try to get Switzerland's attention and instead of saying anything worthwhile China would open his mouth and start _giggling_. The laughter would bubble up between words and pull apart his meaning, he'd chuckle so hard he couldn't hold a pen in his hand, let alone try to reach for the book. Tears would eventually come if he tried to force his hysteria to let him speak, but it was so unimaginably funny that he simply couldn't make himself take it seriously.

They'd travelled through _time!_ They'd fought against _aliens!_ They'd died and then come back to life again and again and again! And it wasn't the same thing as when a nation tried to kill itself, either because their people were unhappy or their enemies were closing in. Not that half-death of being strung up as an example to break morale. Not that almost-end that just left you twitching like a fish in the noose long after a human should have been strangled. Ideas were impossible to kill- but _they_ had died hundreds of times! China had died in the basement, and the kitchen, and the bathroom, and then there was the time he'd been set on fire and had died that way too! And he'd _survived!_ It was _hysterical!_

"O-Okay, here I go..." It was so stupidly funny that China had to clasp a hand over his mouth as Latvia took a shaky breath and looked down at the book- his face looked so _stupid!_ Vietnam touched his arm and China waved a hand at her, telling her to stop worrying so much. Just enjoy the silly show!

"'_Italy you bloody masochist, I hope you read this and feel terrible. Sincerely, England.'"_

"_BWAAHAHAA! SERIOUSLY, ARU!-?"_

* * *

><p><strong>This chapter does nothing that next chapter doesn't do better, except for human names, which comes up absolutely nowhere else and all the other China chapters are already quite long. So I kept this one for that reason alone, even though I don't like having such a short chapter that does so little for the rest of the story. Bleh.<strong>

**Reposted: February 19th, 2012.**


	8. Say Thanks to England

**My Heart Is Broken, End of the Dream, Never Go Back, Secret Door, Dark Hetalia, Utopia, Decision of Love.**

**Once again I wrote USUK, and once again I had to edit it ALL out. Curious, but that's just how this entire story went for those two, and drama was born.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

Say Thanks to England

England had had a bad, bad feeling about today. He'd woken up and realized he really didn't want to go downstairs today, that he felt more inclined to curl up in the hotel closet with a pint in his hand and a blanket over his head and never have to face the world again. He hadn't been sure quite why that was, but having France come bursting out of said closet just as England finished taking a shower didn't exactly _help_ the situation.

"_Angleterre~!"_

"_GOOD GOD, FRANCE, WHY ARE YOU-! ?"_ At which point England was promptly muzzled by France's palm, England's good hand busy keeping the towel he was wearing in place around his hips so he couldn't sucker-punch the Frenchman for scaring the hell out of him. But he still struggled, jabbing France in the gut with his elbow and-

"_Mon ami, _I'm sorry!" Bwuh? England forgot to keep struggling, and to his complete shock France removed the offensive hand from over his mouth. And then France took two big steps back, both hands up and a surprisingly bashful look on his face. Who the devil was this bastard, and what had he done with France!-? "Please keep your voice down!" Said the screaming Fre- "If Scotland comes in and sees me with you he'll kill me!" Scotland? "Be quiet so I can _apologize! Mon dieu!_" What did Scotland have to do with-? Why did France look so serious?

"G-Get on with it then..." This, this was not a good way to start the day. "I hope it's an apology for breaking into my room!" Which he'd done while England was in the shower no less. He didn't want to come back to this hotel again, he'd have to tell Switzerland that before they left: they should go back to the conference centre in Geneva. It was harder to break into people's rooms there...

"You should be _thanking_ me for breaking in." Was France's snooty rebuttal, the other nation pulling a rose from... somewhere, and sniffing it appreciatively as he _'hohohon'd_ to himself like a fool. England wanted to punch him, but not at the expense of his towel and therefore his dignity. Their history had been marked by relatively few instances of nudity and England wasn't going to change that just to put France's nose out of joint. "But yes, sincerely now: England, I am sorry." That...

_'He even said it in English...'_ And France hated translating anything he had to say, so that just made it sound even _weirder_. An _apology..._

"For... the Norman Invasions?"

"Ah, no." France looked disappointed.

"The Hundred Years War?"

"_Non_." France looked _insulted._

"That _humiliating_ marriage proposal?" What about Codpieces? It was probably-

"_Non!_ For _that!_" And France jabbed his hand at England's shoulder, the one bound up with fresh gauze and tape after England's shower, the flesh still tender and bruised from all the abuse his body had taken, his arm was resting temporarily in its sling to keep the weight from pulling on the wound. At least England could be thankful that the famous London Bridge had collapsed in the middle of the night, not the middle of rush-hour, another tragedy would have been too much after everything else. "We've hurt each other before, England. We've done terrible things, back and forth, for centuries- for over a thousand years, but _this_-"

"You're aware that Italy pulled the trigger, yes?" But... he now knew what France was talking about. He understood and when the bearded man scrunched up his face and tightened his shoulders, England shifted uncomfortably and looked away. "I... I get it."

"I'm sorry."

"I..." Not a good start to today, not how he envisioned himself getting ready. He didn't want to think about what France was apologizing for, he didn't even want to goad him for actually humbling himself and expressing shame. It had been painful and unfair and England didn't want to hear about it from either France _or_ America... At least...

"You've been very quiet since we-" _Don't._ "-returned..." England didn't say it, but France caught his breath and changed his statement. "Normally... you yell as much as your brothers. I've never seen you let Ireland boss you around before..." Right... Ireland had been getting a little ahead of himself over the last few days. England would set him straight. Eventually. "I know you told them. I know that's why Scotland has been keeping you protected like this: do you know how hard it was to get in here with all the charms your brothers have set up?" England could have thought about it, he just chose not to. He hadn't really spoken to any of the others since coming back to town, and really he hadn't spoken to anyone all the way back to town either. Japan had carried him, but there had been no talking.

"_Anglete_-"

"A French ship collided with London Bridge on Wednesday night." England found it in him to look straight into France's eyes, watching the other nation bite back his words and flinch a little. England ignored the indignity of his state of undress and kept talking. "The captain was drunk, he expressed no remorse because, in a fluke, the ship managed to stay afloat. He spat in the face of a London police officer and now _your_ government is interfering to keep _my_ government from charging him." Oh but it was so easy to speak when you were mad, especially if you were England. He was damn good with his words when he wanted to be.

"Yesterday, for absolutely no reason, a massive American company pulled out of my markets entirely and now five thousand people are out of work. It's caused a crisis in two small towns in North Yorkshire and Lincolnshire, especially with the sudden abandonment of several foreign, French, investors in the local industries." It might not have been fair to lump France's attacks in with America's, but when they were that tangled up England felt he had a right to it. He kept his eyes on France as he sat down on the bed, not scared of looking small or weak as he fixed the towel under his leg so he no longer had to hold it in place, reaching up to place a hand over his wounded shoulder. He didn't do it because it hurt. He did it to make France feel even worse than he already did.

"Arthur_-_"

"If you'd attacked me as Arthur Kirkland, Francis, then I would say '_I forgive you'._" He did not take his eyes off the blue-eyed nation, England did not blink and he did not let his features soften or mellow in any way. His yellow hair was wet and he wasn't dressed, but England felt for all the world like he was sitting up on the throne of his empire. He could feel four-thousand six-hundred and twenty-nine souls in distress inside of him, each one wallowing in the fresh shame and anxiety of losing their income, their careers, and their dignity. Thousands more were wondering if the same fate would follow them, and investors and analysts across the UK were fretting madly over what those two sudden, unexpected financial moves would do to the nation's economy.

"I wasn't thinking of-" The frog didn't have the right to look so pathetic, he didn't get to look at England with those sad blue eyes and that long sorry frown. He didn't get to look like he was coming apart inside because nothing was damn well _happening_ to him. Trauma and memories and painful experiences- how long was the bastard going to ride that wave for? No one was taking cheap shots at his economy, no one had terrorized _his_ population for no bloody reason.

"But you attacked the United Kingdom of Great Britain and North Ireland, France, so unless you _want_ Scotland to catch you here and have his dirty way with you then I suggest-" The door opened and France visibly jumped at Wales' brilliant timing.

England's older brother was carrying a tray from the hotel buffet. A small pot of tea, two cups and a stack of biscuits with butter and jam were all set up on it and a newspaper was tucked under Wales' arm too. The brunette's grey eyes locked on France, then shifted over to England, and as he silently read the atmosphere he moved past them both to set the tray down on the small table pushed up against one wall. Wales had obviously expected England to be dressed by now, but it wasn't exactly his fault.

"Get out." Wales' order was blunt, the dagger he pulled to emphasize it was not. In this day and age you didn't bring a knife to a gun-fight, but if you were a part of England's family then there was usually some heavy-duty magic to back up most demands and claims. In Great Britain it ultimately didn't matter whether the once and future king had been Welsh, Irish, English or Scottish, the sword was Welsh and Wales was, well, _Wales._

* * *

><p>So his day began with a surprise attack from France, followed by an awkward and unhappy discussion, which culminated in England's brother chasing that frog-faced bastard out of the room at knife-point and threatening to send Scotland after his vital regions if he came back. It was... eventful to say the least.<p>

Getting dressed involved arguing with Wales about the economy, and a page of the newspaper being spread for England to read in-depth about market worries as a thermometer was shoved in his mouth. His temperature was just fine and England considered sticking the thermometer in his teacup just to see what sort of reaction Wales would have to the reading, but dismissed the idea as he finally brushed his hair and gingerly slid his wounded arm through the sleeve of his grey tweed jacket. Instead of a fuss, he shared a relatively peaceful breakfast with his brother and wondered why he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd be better off hiding in the closet instead of going downstairs. Even Wales noticed his nerves.

Was it America? If France had not only worked up the nerve to talk to him but tried _repeatedly_ to come and see him (or so it seemed, especially when England spied Scotland looking sinister while France cowered behind a bashful Canada in the hall), then how long would it be until _America _either pulled a similar stunt or did something even more disruptive? England really didn't want to speak to America. He'd been hurt enough just coming back to civilization after the way things ended, the memories had just added incredible insult to an already hideous injury.

To die over and over again trying to protect someone who was capable of... England had relatively few questions about why _he _had behaved the way he had, made those choices and committed those acts, but the American was just... it hurt too much to think about, so England stopped thinking about it, and he told Wales to shut up about it too once he was reminded just how close his table was to America's...

The conference hall had a stepped design to it, tables with microphones set up on each level along with little name-tags and lights that flickered on and off when the mics were in operation. Usually between two and three nations, rarely four, sat at one table together all facing the front. England rather preferred the hall in Geneva compared to this one: it was too bland, it felt like a university lecture hall- and not one of the nice institutes either. He really would have to talk to Switzerland.

_'I don't want to be here, I don't want to be here, I don't want...'_ Ireland was already waiting for them, Scotland was obviously going to be _delayed_ for a little bit and that explained why America was seated alone at his table directly behind and above England. Canada and France were also _delayed, _but they did show up a few minutes after Scotland arrived and ruffled Wales' hair to annoy the teen, handing out a few tall paper cups to the three of them. Ireland turned around in his chair and made faces at what England assumed was a shell-shocked France, but England didn't feel like scolding him for it.

Hopefully Scotland had gone easy on Canada. The boy hadn't done anything- and that _was_ sort of a problem, but at least he hadn't followed his brother's example...

England still couldn't get the urge to flee out of his gut, but as the hall quieted down and he sampled the tea Scotland had brought for him, he was pleased that his brother had remembered to add lemon, not honey. There were certainly benefits to being tormented by monsters and shot by your friends: it made your family much nicer to be around.

Poor Latvia looked like a wreck across the room from them, the boy standing there blinking owlishly in the strong light they had shining down on him. He also seemed to be fretting a bit about what was on the page and remained silent until Austria tried to figure out what was wrong. England settled down with his tea until, finally, the Baltic began to read:

"'_Italy you bloody masochist, I hope you read this and feel terrible. Sincerely, England.'"_ Wha-?

"_BWAAHAHAA! SERIOUSLY, ARU!-?" _-no.

"_LATVIAAAAAA!_" He-

"_I swear that's what it says!" Oh god..._

The front of the hall erupted into noise and England had a chance to very nervously apologize to Switzerland for spraying a mouthful of tea over the other nation's head and back. There was an aura of heat rising around the former mercenary, but his sister was innocently trying to sop up the mess with her kerchief. He was lucky England hadn't parted with his breakfast instead, because suddenly the nervousness in his stomach had graduated into full on flips and tumbles.

Crawling into his closet once again seemed like a very attractive way to spend the next several hours.

But... to be honest, he didn't really find his gut-reaction out of proportion right now. England just sort of wished he'd been standing up and facing the other way when it happened. Ireland was giggling like a moron next to him- though it was nothing to the hysterical sounds China was making as his siblings quickly ushered the cracked Republic out of the chamber. Scotland was tsking sharply and snapped for the younger Briton to shut up, and Wales was busy making smart comments as England's mind fell open like petals off a wilting rose.

_He'd_ written in the journal? Suddenly, memories he hadn't understood the placement of started to rearrange themselves. Suddenly, he _remembered_ what Italy had said to him this time- the _last_ time, right after he'd shot him...

* * *

><p>"<em>I'm not going to let you do it, England. It did a lot of good, but this time I need you to stay right here."<em>

* * *

><p>Damn. The bullet wound in his shoulder was hurting something fierce at the memory, but worse than that was all of the attention swinging around to the table where he and his brothers were sitting. The accusing looks made sense of course, if it were anyone else' name scrawled in the book then England would bloody well want an explanation too.<p>

It was a shame he didn't have one then... He'd known he shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning and England was desperate to just vanish inside the folds of his tweed suit, his ears beginning to burn from embarrassment. Masochist? It was a word he'd use but where on earth had he found the _gall_ to-

"-?" Oh no, no no no... There was movement behind him and England turned just in time to watch as France, America and Canada- who had all just taken their seats a few minutes ago, stood up in unison. They didn't go anywhere, but they were on their feet for a reason, and England rather wished that Canada could have been the one in the middle, not America. Of the three he had to admit he trusted the former Dominion quite a bit more than the rebel...

Forcing himself to look forward again, England could see from the expression on Switzerland's face that the nations behind him were most likely up there for his _benefit_, not to judge him. The Alpine Republic was clearly irritated, not just by the humiliating spill, but also the very heavy weight of three world powers staring him down. Switzerland sat back down, England folded his good arm around the one in his sling and tried very, very hard to ignore who was standing behind him.

He should never have come down here this morning, he should have known better. To go and brazenly insult someone who had endured _so many horrors?_ Well, even by England's standards it was disgustingly bad form. He'd be lucky if he made it out of this hall with all his limbs attached, nevermind the dignity he'd been fighting to salvage from France...

The confusion at the front wasn't calming down however, and that was causing problems for him. Austria was trying to get a look at the journal and Latvia was being scolded by an irate Estonia. Russia was hovering just off to the side with his sisters, keeping an eye on the situation and scowling darkly, and- Mmm, now Germany was on his way down. England felt an uncharacteristic stab of sympathy for the youngest of the Baltics. Latvia wasn't the one who'd tossed rude words in the face of the nation this assembly had slowly been raising up to the level of a Saint.

But the longer he sat there the easier it was for England to remember penning the words onto the white pages. Yes, he knew why he'd done that, and he knew why they appeared so late in the grimoire's pages when, in fact, they'd been written long before most of the other entries.

"L-Let me read it!" Oooh, the intense pressure behind him flared up quite a bit as he shouted that. Flexing his fingers in the sling his wounded arm was still being held in, England uneasily found his feet, trying very hard to appear nonchalant despite the weight of the world's attention swinging back around to him. The others were trying to be supportive, and despite his clear misgivings it surprised him how much he found himself using that pressure as a crutch. He would not crack in front of America, he'd done that enough times already and look what it had won him.

"Or rather..." Words were always so easy for him, he was once the great British Empire, he knew how to address a crowd... But this was hard. "Allow me to... please explain."

"England-" America's voice, it was as black and bitter as it had been since they'd returned to Bern from that hell house in the middle of nowhere. England swallowed hard and then turned to face his former colony. America's hard blue eyes were staring at him from behind his square glasses. Healthy complexion, straight nose, dusty-gold hair that was kept short and neat behind his ears, pink lips set in a firm line at him. "You don't have to answer to them."

England found it very hard not to smile, but it would have been a cruel thing if he let it out. _America_ of all people telling _him _that he was blameless. The little bastard, how arrogant could some people be? Was he really so self-righteous that he thought he could absolve England for things based on his own sense of justice?

"_Of course_ I do, America." England answered, managing his expression so the smirk on his lips was dismissive, calling up the anger that had allowed him to back France into a corner just an hour earlier. Up above him, France flinched and Canada caught it, but America just continued to glare down at England from behind the desk. "I'm a gentleman, remember? Gentlemen are meant to maintain control over their thoughts and emotions at all times, and my actions to the contrary are reprehensible."

America took a breath and tried to say something, but England held up his good hand dismissively and spoke over him, not in the mood. None of the mics near them were on so this conversation was private anyways. England's brothers could hear him, so could France and Canada, that was as big an audience as he wanted.

"This isn't about _you_, anymore. I don't care about _your_ feelings this time, America, I care about Italy's." Something dangerous flashed in the American's blue eyes, but France winced yet again and set a hand on the Superpower's shoulder- it was batted away but at least the frog had tried. England kept speaking. "We lived. He died. You were quite content to blame _me_ for that fact before so I don't see why that might have changed. If I'm the one who killed Italy then it makes sense that I-"

"I never said that-"

"Yes you did."

America was spared the rebuttal England was ready with when Canada spoke. To say that Mr. Jones was shocked was quite the understatement, but France's expression was... why was he so shocked? In fact it almost looked like Francis had completely forgotten about the discussion, because the next minute he was standing next to his former colony, a tender look on his face as he set a hand on Canada's shoulder. Canada himself, on the other hand, was looking down at the space between England and Ireland, his blue eyes had probably settled on the back of Switzerland's head for all anyone knew, but he spoke, and he was clear.

"You were mad. But you did say it."

"Dude! You totally heard wrong, there's no way I-"

"_Russie et moi étions juste là!_" Canada did not shout. He was not a shouter. His voice became forceful but it did not become loud. A cold wind blew past him and the polar bear cub who had been sleeping at his feet suddenly growled from under the desk, keeping Canada's brother quiet. Why had he switched to French for that though? It happened from time to time; Canada would become so high-strung over some kind of issue and begin firing off in his own French dialect, but he wasn't nearly as mad as he should have been for that right now. "_Tout le monde vous avez vu, vous __**deux**__. C'était dégoûtant._"

The French hand was shrugged off Canada's shoulder, and while England still didn't understand the change in language he found himself appreciating the defence. Perhaps it was a bit late, but unlike France's apology, this was something England found he could accept.

"...Thank you."

And with a quick glance first at Scotland and then down at the chaos still filtering through the microphone at the front of the hall, England quickly stood up and hurried to the aisle, rushing down to the floor past Switzerland's table. He could feel eyes watching him as he moved, but he couldn't tell whether he wanted America's gaze to be included in that or not. It was probably best to just not think about things like that right now.

Looking up at the world as he walked, England was straightening his grey jacket with his good hand and doing up the wide buttons when he saw Japan and Prussia on their feet, joining the other three. None of them were doing anything, of course, but they were there. Maybe they didn't have all of their memories perfectly in alignment the way England felt he did now, but they knew they were getting there. It was nice to feel that solidarity again, short-lived though it would be. China was just pushing his way back into the hall, his laughter under control as he seemed to be shaking Korea off his arm. They were showing solidarity in their own way by being here, and he was thankful for it.

One, two steps up onto the dais where the podium stood, Austria was there to meet him with hushed words and-

"Austria, please." -and England shushed him immediately, he didn't want to argue with these people. "Latvia, thank you. Estonia." He nodded to the Baltics and watched them quickly leave the stage, Russia nodding in England's direction before following them. When Russia found his table again, he too remained standing with the others.

Moving up onto the long dais where the wooden podium was standing tall, the light from above came down hot over the microphone and Italy's journal. Austria, unhappy, backed down. Germany was still standing just outside of the light and England nodded to the stoic nation as he took up position behind the stand. Germany looked incredibly uncomfortable, but just folded his arms stiffly and remained exactly where he was.

Looking up into the hot lights- damn, did they have to angle them so precisely? England winced despite himself and blinked repeatedly, his good hand up to shield his face from the glare for a few moments as he waited for his vision to adjust. He was willing to wait a long time if that was what it took, despite the brevity of his blindness he certainly didn't want to relive it...

"Well then..." His voice slipped into the mic and came out the speakers behind him, filling the chamber as he adjusted the black head in front of him to account for his height- Latvia was short. "Allow me to begin." Begin how, exactly? It wasn't as if he'd prepared a speech.

Looking down at the open book in front of him, England remembered... the pen. The journal came with its own writing utensil, hence the terribly bloody ink scrawled all over the insides as the pages stared up at him. On the one page there were Italy's scrawling loops and dips, and on the one next to it there was England's own familiar, cramped, and aggressive letters. But they hadn't used the same pen. Shutting the journal with a dull thud, England turned the book over until its spine was facing up and he fingered the top edge a little, looking for the- there.

The leather gave and a narrow sleeve was exposed, this was much easier with two hands but he couldn't help the sling he was wearing. The pen was unconventional- for one it held no actual ink, and two, it looked exactly like the long minute hand of a grandfather clock. The utensil wasn't so morbid that you had to slice open your hand in order to write with it, but the elaborate metal piece that England withdrew from the sleeve _did_ write in blood. There had been a sinister magic around it the first time England found and held it, so he'd refused to write with it- adamantly refused. He'd borrowed America's pen instead.

Now the magic was gone, but England's writing was still robed in black ink.

"I'm not going to read out what I wrote." He said simply, holding up the metal "pen" so the world could see it. "Because I did write it, I remember writing it. But I know now that I was wrong to do so and that everything I said... well, I can't un-ring a bell but I _can _admit that I had no right to ring it in the first place." And that was why he'd closed the book.

"All nine of us know how we escaped, and we know what we were in the midst of deciding before Italy appeared and saved us. And now I know why he saved us. Why he chose _us:_ the second loop." The audience was quiet, as they always were now. This wasn't a world summit or a G8, it wasn't a sporting event or a war meeting. There was no bickering and no going back and forth over trivialities in this place. England didn't want to _ignore_ the nations watching him and waiting for him to support his claim, but he found himself only looking for the other eight who felt like they really mattered here.

"The loop we're reading right now with the treaty and the safe room is the final loop. But the one where the nine of us are from is only the second. The one with the funeral, the one where Italy- where _Feliciano Vargas_, met and spoke with Germany. We're from the one Italy never remembered because instead of taking the safety he offered us with his sacrifice, we threw it back in his face and used the journal ourselves-" No, that was a lie. "I- _I_ used the journal. I sent us back in time. We wanted to save Italy and instead we condemned him to... to _dozens _of future loops. We should have looked for the key and escaped, but we didn't."

They hadn't even tried to find the way out. England found his memories stirring but tried to force them to behave, not to well up and steal him away from this moment. He let the hot white lights burn his face and felt the throb of his injured shoulder and appreciated both. It felt right to hurt a little.

"In the third loop America and I died in the music room, but not before I sent Feliciano, Ludwig-" It, it felt so _strange_ to use those names out-loud! "-and Alfred back to their own time. In the third loop I was the only one who remembered having gone through everything once before, and I warned Italy to be careful, but- but I don't know how it ended..." As in, England didn't possess a memory of it, he only remembered being frustrated and angry when he found _more_ time-travelling idiots in the music room, not to mention the monster that- never mind. "But I remember... Antonio. And Lovino." England pulled his eyes away from the spot on the wall where he'd been focusing, searching the crowd for Spain and Romano. Only the former empire was present to hear what he had to say and Spain stood up slowly, adjusting his jacket and trying to mask the serious look on his face.

"Spain I-" His voice hurt. England wasn't used to choking in public and was disgruntled by it, closing his eyes and mouth for a moment to get back in control of himself. He looked at his former rival again and did a better job of getting the words out. "Spain, I am sorry for not helping you when you asked. You explained everything to me and Romano was _clearly_ in distress, but I did nothing until it was almost too late, and in the third loop I squandered what you had told me and it changed nothing for Italy." England had made a mess of things...

And that _monster_ had made a mess of _everything..._

Spain said something but the microphone at his table wasn't turned on. England didn't need to hear it though, he just watched the other nation nod his head and then awkwardly make to sit- but he stayed on his feet instead. It felt appropriate for Spain to stand with them: England didn't begrudge him.

There was a sound in the speakers, a muffled beating and a quiet hum of static. Once the connection was established England found China leaning on the small button on the table that activated the microphone, allowing the chamber to hear his question.

"Why do we remember all of the loops, including the second, like it's all in the past? How can the second loop have happened twice?" Their loop had changed a lot of things, how could both sets of events happen? You couldn't get the Italy of the Final Loop, the one who'd rescued them all, without England taking them all back in time and effecting outcomes in the future. You had to have both, or you'd get neither.

"I don't know." What was he going to do, lie? England could remember everything _he_ had done, but there were some answers only Italy... "But about the order of the entries! I know that I flipped to these pages at the back on a whim, I didn't go to the last one Italy had written." Because even if the other eight understood this, the world might not. "I didn't even read them this time, I didn't have a chance." But England could remember... the _'first'_ time going through the second loop, as bizarre and confusing as that sounded. He'd read Italy's scribbles then and it hadn't been nearly as traumatic as all of the readings now: there had only been the one entry.

This time around, England had been in the midst of asking America for the pen when everything changed...

A dull tone echoed through the speakers, a little light flickering to life at the corner of one table. Finland was giving his partner a curious look where Sweden, as stoic and unruffled as ever, was pressing the button to speak. China had already released his and was still on his feet, Sweden remained seated.

"You remember because there were only two Italys." Um... What? "_Hmph._" Well that wasn't very helpful, Swe-

"He means-" Finland pressed the button as soon as Sweden took his hand off of it, the connection flickering momentarily through the sound-system. "He means that while there was a new one of you every time you died and came back, Italy only died once. There were, uh, Svi hand me those..." Papers changed hands, the crisp sheets rustling under the mic before the larger nordic pointed something out to the smaller blond. "If the loop we've been reading is the final loop then... there were almost eighty-five in total." W... what..? So many- "For someone like Russia who didn't die every time that's still almost thirty resurrections, and for yourself, England, the number is closer to sixty." Oh, thank you for that, he hadn't known they were going to be_ ranked._

"_You've been keeping track? Intense..."_ Denmark's voice, surprised and perhaps a little bit in awe on Sweden's other side, but not close enough for the mic to catch properly. Still reeling a little from the information, England cleared his throat and tried to figure out what this all really meant.

"I'm not sure I-" Oh, Estonia's light came on. "Yes?"

"This is just a theory, but..." The Baltic state has his fingers woven together in front of him, Lithuania diligently holding the button down for him. The glow of his laptop reflected off Estonia's glasses and obscured his eyes as he spoke slowly into the microphone. He sounded so smug, how like him. "If Italy's memories were only reset once, then that means everything for him was always moving chronologically. His memory was flagging by the end but Italy himself always perceived time as moving forward. The rest of the world kept reliving the same few days but he progressed through several years."

Years. Plural.

"So, theoretically..." Because England felt himself lagging behind for some reason, like Estonia was being intentionally vague in his explanation. He didn't like this feeling of confusion, of having someone else know more about something that had such a power over him. England didn't like being lied to, or misled, or kept out of the loop. He'd always hated that sort of thing on the basis of respect, but when the information was essential to his survival- wait, that wasn't what this was anymore... They were safe now...? "I'm sorry, could you finish that thought, Estonia? For the record?" Austria always kept perfectly clear and precise notes, England wanted to hear it for his own good.

"Basically," Smug, so smug, how did a nation that had been crushed under Russia's heel for so many centuries find the gall to sound _smug?_ "It doesn't matter that Italy went back in time and changed this loop, he still perceived it as a step forward, another event falling in chronological order. Furthermore, I think we all agree with him, don't we?" It was an open question, one meant for the entire floor and England wasn't going to get in the middle of it yet.

He was trying to reason his way through it, to understand time and their experience the way Italy had. Always moving forward, reliving the same scenario over and over again, but each loop had been distinct. Something had set each one apart from the last, even if it was just a comment someone made or the direction they chose to walk in. They'd each walked a different path towards a slightly different end each time, but always suffered with the same consequence of having to go back and try again.

And then England understood what Estonia's point was, and he agreed.

"If time had truly been reset then none of us would have access to the later memories." England said, speaking up quickly and watching the contemplative faces hovering in the chamber in front of him. "And we wouldn't remember things that should have happened in the_ future _like they had occurred in the past. Italy was always moving forward: time wasn't being reset, it was bending, coiling around itself in a spiral! We forgot for the same reason our wounds were healed and our clothes repaired-" The Monster. "-and now that we're free from that thing's magic, we remember."

Did that... make sense? Another small white light turned on at the corner of the table where Netherlands and his sister Belgium were sitting, the smaller nation leaning in a little so the mic could catch her voice.

"Time was... not erased." She sounded so shy as she murmured the words, speaking slowly as if to make sure she understood. Flemish and French mingled in her accent, certain words leaning one way or the other with her vowels. "As you say, it was bent, woven back on itself with a knot where Italy always began again. When he died- when you took control, it was a snare in the pattern that, maybe, is what caused him to forget things later. But I agree with Estonia: Italy always continued to move forward, he could recognize past from present while everyone else became confused." It sounded, briefly, like there was more Belgium wanted to say but she took her finger off the button, the light winking out next to her as she sat back carefully and folded her hands in her lap.

"Everything..." Her silence left England alone again in front of the world, his good hand still resting on the cursed book in front of him, his wounded arm bound up carefully in its sling. His voice didn't break as he spoke, but his throat and mouth were so dry too... "Everything that happened to us, happened. It was not unwritten or undone, it was just in a different place at the same time as everything else." It sounded so confusing when he said it out loud, but it made so much sense in his own mind. It _felt_ right, he just didn't know the words to have it all make sense.

"We died." Something very similar to what he'd said to America just before coming up here. "We died many times, in terrible ways. And we came together in... amazing... ways. That we ultimately failed to help ourselves, I think, is _almost_ the worst part of this. That the only person competent enough to escape on his own had to die to rescue us is, I think, _the_ worst part of this."

This sounded like a closing speech, something to sum up everything that had happened to them. End the story, close the book, but...

Looking down at _the_ book, England pursed his lips tightly for a moment before he flipped the journal onto its side, pulling the cover open and staring down at the bloody writing. He started thumbing through the pages, going back, back, back, almost all the way to the end. As soon as he saw black writing he stopped going so quickly. And when he saw the wet spots on the page where tears had caused the ink to bleed, England found himself choking slightly and looked away from the mic so he could clear his throat.

So Italy had read it, hadn't he? He'd read England's horrible little letter to him... Very well. It was in the past now, their discussion had just settled that part for everyone. Blinking quickly to fight off the burning sensation in his eyes, England looked back down and started flipping pages again, swiftly coming to the end of his part and the place where the crimson writing resumed. There were... perhaps twenty pages of text after that, so at least another day of reading. At least.

"I..." Trying to count them roughly, England's thumb quickly brushed aside the last few without noticing- a particularly large spot of blood causing the pages to stick together and catch on his hand. Whatever he'd been about to say, he forgot, he just looked down at the inside cover of the journal and... stared. It wasn't what he'd expected.

He'd seen the back of the journal before, when he'd finally helped Spain and Romano. He'd dragged his finger over the glyphs his future self had scrawled and brought the exhausted magic back to life, sending them off into the future to reunite with their friends. The page with the glyph was gone now, which sort of made sense considering what Italy had said about tearing the magic out of it. But that had been a physical page. This, this was imprinted in the leather itself, and it was something England hadn't seen the first time. Or the second time. He'd never seen it at all.

Carved into the leather flap holding the book together was one word. No ink, no familiar dips and loops, no rigid, aggressive script. It was one word in a hand England didn't recognize. One simple, terrible little word. A question:

_Again?_

* * *

><p><strong>Not only was Canada NOT in this chapter originally, but when I wrote his part the first time it was all in English, which sort of doesn't make sense given what I already said about him.<strong>

**French Translations: **"Russia and I were right there!", "Everyone saw you, _both _of you. It was disgusting."

**I went back and counted all of the numbers written on the floor in HetaOni, and there are 82 in the key room, not counting the new number for the loop they were in (there was no 10 or 12). If there were numbers on the walls we can't see then that's just icing on the cake.**

**Reposted: February 19th, 2012.**


	9. Romano's Ardent Prayers

**Soldiers, Memories, Message for the Queen, Norwegian Pirate, Am I Not Human?**

**I absolutely love this chapter. For anyone looking for the perfect song to read along with, the second part (especially when the action happens) was written entirely to "Am I Not Human?" by Two Steps From Hell. Love this song so much, it's haunting and active and love love love.**

**About the second part however: it is a LOT of italics and if you're like me it can start to make you dizzy. I have another copy of this chapter where the Italics/straight font is inverted since that's how it was originally, so if you'd like me to switch the two then please either say so in your review or PM me to request the switch.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

Romano's Ardent Prayers

* * *

><p>"<em>Isn't there someplace safe where we can stay?"<em>

"_Veh~ In a dream like this I don't think we need a sanctuary, do we?"_

"_Oh, Italy..."_

* * *

><p>Being a nation had its perks, you know? For Romano, one of the simplest ones was that once someone knew who and what he was, they made sure not to get in his way. At least, that was how it worked when he was within his own shady borders.<p>

He didn't want to think about those though. Borders. Lines. Distinctions. He didn't want to think about them, or be reminded of them, or wonder what might have been going on with them. What was left of you when the other you was taken away? Did you become him or did he just cease to exist?

South Italy was Catholic- North Italy had been Catholic too, so all of Italy was Catholic- or mostly Catholic. Enough of them believed in the divinity of the father that Romano felt himself compelled to believe the same way even if it was confusing trying to apply mortal theory to eternal life. So he just didn't think about it. He didn't put all the sins of nationhood on one mortal body, Christ would have needed several brothers to suffer and die with him to absolve all the dark sins the world's nations had committed. If the nations were the personification of the world's wrongs, then it was better for the Saviour to just focus on the individual souls rather than the collective personalities.

Wasn't there a passage in the bible about all nations dying once the final day arrived...?

* * *

><p>"<em>If you wanted to keep everyone safe, where would you go?"<em>

_"H-Hol-" The sweet scent of daisies and blue cornflowers..._

_"Lets check out the music room again, Italy." The distant sound of piano keys drumming without a melody..._

* * *

><p>So Romano didn't want to think about Christ dying. Or any supposed brothers-of-Christ. Or Romano's own brothers- specifically not his little brother. No brothers. No dying. No Salvation. No martyrdom. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to remember the only sibling who had really mattered, mattered more than Spain, mattered so much more than that bastard France. Romano didn't want to <em>think<em> about Vene-

* * *

><p>"<em>Should I... go back?" Back to the real world, back to the nightmare?<em>

"_This is a dream, Ita. A beautiful dream. Don't you want to share it with me?" Share this dream, share this life?_

* * *

><p>"Stay away from him<em>, <em>you _bastard...!_"

Romano opened his eyes slowly, grumbling, looking up at the elaborate dome topping the cathedral. The zenith was almost completely shadowed despite the sunlight pouring in from two lower windows, dust hanging in the golden rays as they struck lovingly painted murals and sculptures, each one crafted by reverent hands. Two massive black candelabras hung from the ceiling, their wicks unlit since it wasn't a special occasion and the daylight was more than enough to let the devoted kneel for their prayers.

Being a Nation had its perks: you weren't allowed to sleep in the _Duomo di Napoli_, but as soon as the Archbishop of Naples had seen Romano, he'd been left alone in the cathedral to do as he pleased. Which, sadly, wasn't very much...

He hadn't meant to fall asleep after morning mass, but it wasn't the first time it had happened either. Stiff and sore on the stones between two long pews, Romano could have at least chosen to go to sleep on the polished wood, but _no:_ it had to be the floor instead.

He grumbled to himself in irritation, fighting off hunger pains as he straightened his black jacket, brushing the dust off his slacks. There were no patterns in any of the fabrics he was wearing, no pin-stripes, no decorations, no bright buttons. His hat was black felt but had nothing on it but a small strip of black ribbon over the brim. He didn't put it on, he was in a church, damn it.

His shirt was black, his tie was lopsided but he didn't fix it. He was exhausted as he stood up and inched his way out into the isle. He was only a row or two from the front anyways, kneeling quickly before standing again and turning to head out down the middle. He had to get out of this place.

He was starving, he couldn't remember how long he'd been here already and the fact that he couldn't think of anything to eat just nagged at him. Romano wasn't the kind of person to think _'I'm hungry'_ and not immediately have his mind jump to recipes and ingredients and techniques. But nothing was coming. He wasn't himself.

* * *

><p>"<em>Every time we pass that door, you stop...?"<em>

"_Veh... Memories." The second level with the pale wood floors, the white-washed walls. No sign of the mirror-eyed monster._

"_Do you want to go inside, Ita?" The black velvet hat, the soft pink smile. Nothing hiding in those perfect blue eyes..._

* * *

><p>He wanted to go outside. Romano walked quickly because you weren't supposed to run in a church. He had the distinct feeling that he'd tried this before and that it hadn't gone well, but he couldn't remember why. It was just a church- the grandest one in southern Italy, but still just a church. Its massive doors were open at the west end of the nave, white light obscuring the city street beyond as a pair of holy sisters were calmly making their way inside, rosaries swinging from their waists.<p>

"_Again..?" _

Romano froze. A child's voice, but raspy, broken, hiding somewhere nearby. He'd heard that voice before, in the memories he couldn't remember while he slept where he shouldn't be. Romano stared ahead of him at the holy sisters. When one bowed her head to the other he thought he saw something behind her black wimple. Something grey, something otherworldly- but not the sort of _'other'_ you ever wanted to see, hovering, just outside the doors of a church.

The mirrored gaze was gone before he could tell if he'd seen it or not, as in, whether it was even real.

But he heard running footsteps and knew his own feet were nailed to the floor. The sisters slowly passed him slowly in their graceful way but the footsteps didn't stop. They wouldn't stop: the sprinting steps that launched a spirit of fear and dread past him, disturbing the air and causing his hair to blow back and his shirt to ruffle. No sight, just sound and sensation- or maybe not even sound, maybe the air hadn't moved.

Running. Running back towards the alter, screaming towards the cross. A spirit seeking sanctuary, searching for help- any help, even if it was help from a God that would make all mortals one under his light. Even from a deity planning to destroy all the nations who kept his children apart.

Romano knew before he turned that he wouldn't see Veneziano, but he turned and he looked and he prayed just the same. His eyes felt hot and his throat was tight but he still hoped that maybe, just maybe, he'd see his little brother tearing towards the heart of the Cathedral.

* * *

><p>"<em>What's in the closet, Ita?" A frown that didn't sit on his face quite right, didn't pull on his cheeks the way it should or draw in his lips like he remembered.<em>

"_Nothing we need." Unease, discomfort, things that didn't belong. Maybe- "Veh~ lets go back to the others!"_

"_You keep looking at that door..." Fear? "...**Where** are you hiding?" Words that didn't sound like his words..._

"_Huh?" A smile that didn't look quite like **his** smile..._

* * *

><p>He didn't see him.<p>

"You _bastard_..."

Romano just saw the two sisters turn as they heard his voice and looked at him, both women shocked and insulted as he profaned God's holy temple with the swear.

He didn't care.

"You bastard, why didn't you trust me...?" His words were soft but he hoped they were still sharp enough to have an effect. He locked his jaw to stop himself from shouting the way he wanted to. His hands rolled up into tight fists and he felt them start to shake. Romano's lungs emptied in a huff and then refused to fill back up. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

Why had his brother been sent to _Hell?_

Veneziano wasn't supposed to be in Hell. He wasn't supposed to be suffering anymore. He'd fought the devil and compacted with him to try, again and again, to get his friends out, to free them from whatever sin had corrupted that mansion. So Veneziano wasn't allowed to go to Hell. What kind of God would condemn a soul like his to hell-fire because he gave _his_ soul to free nine others? Yes, he'd signed a deal with the devil, but no, that didn't mean Romano's little brother _belonged in Hell!_

His faith couldn't deal with it: Veneziano was _not_ one of the damned.

Romano marched away from the aisle and around behind the pews, avoiding the sisters as they went back to whatever they had come here to do. He found himself in the shadowed alcoves which punctuated the nave, his attention drawn to the soft lights of the votive candles set up by the faithful.

He'd never known St. Januarius; the Patron Saint of Naples had lived during Grandpa Rome's time, long before Romano had been aware of anything around him. But the Saint's statue was familiar to Romano after all these years and his presence was almost soothing. Almost. There were several tall yellow candles burning brightly around the Saint's bust, the light shining off the metal skin and picking out the gold threaded through the red cape and cap of his office.

Romano had already lit a votive for Veneziano, now he lit another. From one martyr to another, Januarius had to do something on his brother's behalf. There was no alternative.

Another, smaller votive was still burning at the alter of the Blessed Virgin. If Januarius couldn't help argue for Veneziano then the Holy Mother had to forgive him for his sins instead. She _had _to forgive him. No exceptions.

"_Again?"_

Romano's hands shook so badly that he dropped the candle before he could light it properly, the wax pad hitting the floor and rolling away through the shadows. Instead of crawling after it he lifted his shaking hands to hold the sides of his head. He pressed his palms down over his ears, eyes closed so he could block out the voice, block out the memories.

* * *

><p>"<em>I'm having so much fun, Italy, thank you for dreaming of me."<em>

"_Holy Rome...?"_

_A doorway so narrow you had to duck and go sideways. A staircase that vanished up into the space between the second and third floors. Over the hidden annex. Low ceilings, a cache of food, running water and places to bathe and sleep._

_A smile that wasn't his smile. A laugh that wasn't his laugh..._

"_So much fun. Tell me..." Blue eyes that weren't hiding anything, a smile that didn't say anything. A bad feeling that meant far, far too much. "Tell me, when it ends this time, will you play with me again?"_

_Again...?_

* * *

><p>He was hungry, he'd just been about to leave but Romano found himself kneeling outside the small barrier set up across the end of the nave to keep people out of the sanctuary. He'd almost made a complete circle of the church, a loop he kept running round and round between the pews. This was what he'd done just before he'd collapsed between the benches and gone to sleep. He couldn't break out of the cycle, he couldn't escape from this place. He was down on the stone floor and he didn't care where the Holy sisters had gone. He just bowed his head and kissed the cross hanging from around his neck, eyes shut and lips moving soundlessly against the metal.<p>

_'Why are you showing me this?"_ Why? Why? It didn't make sense _why... "Why does this keep happening to us? My brother isn't in Hell, you can't be that cruel. He was so **good.**'_ Veneziano who had always been virtuous. Veneziano who had always been pious. Veneziano who had always been more conservative than Romano, more traditional, more tolerant of Vatican and willing to put up with the Micro-nation in more ways than the southern region could stomach.

If he had to remember then Romano wanted different memories. He wanted real ones. Good ones. Or maybe he'd even take the bad ones too, just not the worst ones. Please, stop showing him all of this... If he had to hear his brother's voice then- then let it be something stupid! Let it be something Romano could remember without so much pain. Maybe he could even smile... Like:

"_And this is my big brother Romano! We've always been governed separately, so he's kind of a dick!"_ God wouldn't send that laughing fool to Hell... Bastard.

"_Oh boy, it's hug time-!"_

Stupid hug-therapy!

The devil had tempted his brother into that house, because Veneziano was an_ idiot._

"_At least I'm keeping liquor stores out of your neighbourhood!"- Pah! _Who cared about liquor stores and Mafiosos when his brother was too _stupid_ to see what kind of danger he was always getting himself into!

He'd probably walked right into that death trap with a grin on his face- and look where it had gotten him! He'd been the stupidest nation who ever lived! An air-head and a fool and a scatter-brained flower child! Veneziano couldn't recognize danger until it smacked him right in the face- he hadn't even realized they were losing the Second World War until suddenly the allies were marching through Romano's house!

_But those weren't things their God could punish him for!_

"Why won't you answer me, you bastard?" Romano felt pain wrap around his heart slowly. It felt like wires were crossing and twisting carefully around the beating organ. It felt like soldiers forming ranks around Naples, getting ready to march through the city streets. Romano dropped the cross so it could hang around his neck again, reaching up to the ornate barricade set up in front of the sanctuary and clinging to the low wrought-iron gate.

He was shaking, he realized that only after he heard the gate begin to rattle, his weight resting on it as his back hunched and his empty stomach began to twist and kick at him, demanding food. But he couldn't stand up, he tried it and his knees turned to sand, leaving him stranded on the floor.

Damn it...

Romano closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath, and when he opened them again...

* * *

><p>(W-what the hell?)<p>

_They were dead. He'd known it would be that way but he'd tried anyways, tried to see if he could come back and make a difference rather than just move forwards and keep making the same mistakes. His memory was so full of holes now, if he just kept plowing forward they would all lose their sanity long before they manage to escape._

_And that was still the goal. Escape. Get out alive._

_These ones were dead, it shocked him how he didn't have the will to weep over them anymore. It was even the same, terrible room as the first time. The white bricks were washed with red, Prussia flung on his back with one leg bent the wrong way, his blood cooling and congealing on the floor. Germany had the back of his skull smashed open, Japan had been impaled on Prussia's sword when the Thing felt like having a bit more fun with them. The dank basement air was filled with the stink of their suffering, the only sound was the shallow panting of the only one who hadn't finished dying yet._

(This isn't me. No, why is this-?)

_He didn't remember how he survived this loop, Feliciano just knew that he had. He'd reached the clock and he'd promised himself he would make it next time._

_Walking forward, his steps were wet with blood and stopped once the toe of his boot brushed familiar auburn hair. Looking down, his own honey-brown eyes were looking up at him, fogged with pain and blood-loss. His blue uniform was torn open and there was blood pulsing weakly out of the gash across his chest. Painful._

_"I'm changing the game." The Italy on the floor didn't recognize Feliciano as he knelt down, but that was alright, it would have only confused him if he'd remembered. "You're going to help me." He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out the wrinkled red pepper from the supply room, pinching his double's bloody mouth open and slipping the herb inside. He forced him to chew, forced him to swallow a mouthful of beer despite the bad taste. His double choked and gagged on the floor, retching at the spice before his eyes rolled back into his skull and he passed out. _

(W-why are there two of him? Did he do this? _Is_ he doing this?)

_It actually made it easier to bandage him up after that. Feliciano considered shooting him instead, even pulled out America's pistol and held it to his double's head... but then he put it away. It wouldn't do them any good._

"_I can't stop you from making my mistakes, even if I held your hand all the way." But he couldn't do that, it would change too much, break and ruin too much. They'd all lose their souls to this mad-house if he did something as bold as that... "So make them. I... guess I'll have to forgive you."_

(Vene, what's going on! Tell me where you are! Veneziano!)

"_I need that key." Reaching down to his unconscious self, Feliciano grabbed his bandaged wrist and swung it around, hauling Italy up onto his shoulder so he could drag him away from the massacre. _

_(Veneziano!)_

"_I'm getting them out of here..." It was hard work, his other self was heavy and Feliciano himself was still injured from before, from what had happened... "I'm getting **everyone** out of here, even the ones who haven't arrived yet." He could still smell Romano's blood on his clothes- _

(I'm right _here _you idiot!)

_-the crimson had soaked through his uniform, it was going dark brown along the edges as it dried... _

_Enough of that._

(You know what? Fine. I get it.)

_If the Thing knew what he was doing, the monster didn't show itself. It was disturbing how silent the mansion always became after everyone else was dead. It always worked out like this, once the other nine were dead the monster would stop appearing unless it was specifically to taunt him. Sometimes it would show up and just **walk **behind him, follow him all the way to the clock room and wait for him to turn time back again. _

_Again, and again, and again, and..._

(This was the loop where you tried sacrificing yourself in the basement, isn't it? It was just you, Kraut-Breath, his brother, and Japan. The monster burst through the door and-)

_Funny, he couldn't remember where the clock room was this time around. It always changed location, it was just another facet of what made this place so terrible to be in. He had to stop and flip through the pages of the journal, but it wasn't there, it wasn't at the end of the loop where it was supposed to be... _

_So instead of directions he got to pull himself together and stop crying when he found the few pages of taunting script that were done in black ink, not the crimson from the journal's haunted pen. England's words had stunned him the first time he'd seen them, right after everything that happened in the annex and he'd tried figuring out what they could do without the safe room... He still couldn't look at these pages without going to pieces._

_Maybe he'd try something else, start the other task he'd assigned himself first. Right. He could do that._

(In that loop you thought would die, but you just woke up confused in the clock room with no real memory of what had happened. You figured it was either the monster or that maybe one of your friends had survived and then tried drawing the monster away. You used the clock and you started again.)

_Fourth floor, of course, the furthest possible place from where the last of Italy's friends had died. He was exhausted by the time he made it up there, but that wasn't going to work, he couldn't afford to take a break now. He left his past self in the hall and quickly headed back down to the second floor, locating the hidden metal piece before returning to the fourth. Hm... He'd have to figure out a way of getting these back in position for the others in the next loop, but Feliciano just wasn't worried about it right now. In a dead heat that monster hadn't come close to catching him once._

_It took him a long time to get going on the offensive, something to the tune of sixty kilometres a week, but in reverse?_

(I guess this is how you survived that loop then, isn't it? Does this mean you were going against fate, or an agent of it?)

_With the keys he unlocked the door to the moon puzzle, and without deferring to the journal he dragged his past self's unconscious form up the new staircase, his eyes closed as they moved into the next bloody room. He went straight over to the three and just let his other self lay like that. Everyone was right: Italy's siestas really were kind of annoying when you were the one doing all of the hard work around him. Now about that switch... could he throw something and hit it?_

"_Uguu~?" What the he-?_

(-the _fuck_ was that?)

_He turned and... the mochi? He was... stunned to say the least when he saw the white, round, limbless blob staring at him from the doorway. Somehow, he'd had completely forgotten about it. Again. And this time he noticed how it..._

(...Why does it look like America? The glasses, the little hair thing...)

_Weird. But not what he should have been thinking about. No, instead, he just nodded and finally understood. The creature looked deeply disturbed by the corridor it had just moved up and the bloody floor in this cold room, but it wasn't running away._

_"Of course, you had to be here before the loop ended in order to get stuck..." He was mostly just thinking out-loud, but when he heard his own words he winced slightly. That was crass... "By the way, you're going to get shoved behind a book-case for a while, but at least you'll be safe there, okay? I'm not really sure what will happen to you after that, but I think you'll be alright." It could have been a lie, it might have been the truth, either way the Japanese pastry gave him a horrified look._

"_Please! Please, before you go, can you help me really quickly?" The little creature looked confused, wary- it was looking at two Italys after all, one of which was considerably more bloody than the other, and they were both from the Nor... n... nevermind..._

(And that's how you solved the puzzle with only two people... and without resorting to dragging bodies up the stairs.)

_He stood on the twelve while his double lay sprawled over the three. Mochi hit the switch and the door opened up in the back wall. After that he dragged his double back down the stairs, telling himself he could keep going even when it took him another hour of searching to find the big clock again._

_First floor. Of course. Exhausted but forcing himself to ignore it, he gave in a little and ate some of the food he still had with him from the safe-room. He felt better for it but sleep was out of the question. First floor in the library, he could run back here as fast as he had to once he was finished upstairs..._

(So, what are you planning? Why don't you ever think out-loud in these things, you secretive little bastard?)

_Resting for just a few more minutes, he went over the plan one more time in his mind, nodding to himself at each individual step. Alright. He could do this. _

"_**Ve!**- Ve?- I meant **c****higi!**" That came out wrong the first time. Embarrassed, he turned away from his unconscious double, clearing his throat before trying again. "You stupid ass, Veneziano! **Chigi!** Get up!"_

(IS THAT SUPPOSED TO BE ME, YOU BASTARD!-?)

_Placing his hand over his double's eyes, he focused for a moment and then felt his healing power well up and spill from one into the other. His past self groaned almost instantly, his body starting to twist and stretch as it was woken up. Steeling himself, he tried thinking of his brother without crying, using the fact that he was crying to make the words come out better._

"_You're so stupid, falling asleep here! You think you can just die, you bastard?"_

"_**F... Frate-?**"_

(Fuck. I'm not your brother anymore, you don't sound nothing like me! Get me out of this dream! I quit being your brother!)

"_**Damn it!** Don't speak, just listen, stupid!" This was so much harder than it could have been. He couldn't do this with the blood on his clothes, he couldn't do it with Romano's face in his head. His memories wouldn't go back far enough to- "I'm going to go kick those monsters' asses, and then I'm coming straight back here you got it!-? And when you hear me coming, you're gonna use that damn clock and go back **one more fucking time, Veneziano!** Do you understand me!-?"_

"_**S... Si? Roma-**" His past self was trying to reach out to him, Italy's hands grasping at his uniform and feeling at his lapels. He struggled to get his head free but Feliciano just kept his hand in place, not letting him open his eyes. A dream, he'd think it was all just a dream when he woke up..._

"_If you fail me now you bastard there'll be nothing but marmite for you to eat! So don't die!"_

"_**Veh~!**"_

"_Just get ready, damn it!" Did he need anything from here? America's gun was at his hip and he had the journal in his other hand, if he broke down now he'd never make it out of here, he had to get to the fifth floor and back, he had to._

"_**Romano!**"_

_So he turned and he sprinted out as fast as he could, almost glad that the library was dark and that it obscured the colour of his uniform as he bolted down the hall and burst out through the door, leaving it wide open. The monsters would leave his past self alone, and even if they didn't it just meant that Italy would use the clock a little bit sooner._

_Really, of the two it seemed more likely that they'd follow Feliciano and leave Veneziano alone. He saw two of them just standing by the stairs on separate levels before he was back at the fifth floor, neither one moved, but they were watching him. Waiting to see what he was up to. So he ran._

(Wait, wait- _woah-!_ I don't get it, you can't just-!)

_He ran up the stairs, he ran through the puzzle room and he ran by the locked cell holding the hoards of blood-thirsty abominations. He sprinted straight into the room with the bleeding numbers, and without even pausing to take in the toxic atmosphere he bolted straight towards the multi-eyed mass._

_A 1 painted itself on the white floor as he sprinted, one of Germany's grenades in his hand as he pulled the pin out with his teeth and threw the round canister across the room. A terrible ringing sound filled the air even without the explosive charging so close to him, and as the Thing dislodged itself from the wall he didn't have it in him to hesitate before he cut a path close to its body and around behind. _

(Faster! Faster! _CHIGI!_ Don't take risks like that!)

_Its grasping body missed him by an inch and only because he lunged for the key just as the grenade detonated, filling the air with shrapnel and sound. His hand closed around the cold steel and he tucked his shoulders to roll and clear himself of the beast's back. The roll put his feet on the floor and he was off, again, sprinting as fast as he could as he felt the rage starting to bleed out of the walls. The Thing didn't know what he was doing._

_Holy Rome was mad at him._

_He'd done this too many times, he knew what this was like and dodging the hoard was more a challenge for his focus than his body, punished as it was. The cell doors were open as he tore down the crimson hall, the screaming and wailing filling his ears as he charged and limbered himself up enough to abruptly pivot to the right when a gorilla-armed abomination dropped in front of him. Don't fight, just snake around its hulking limbs and keep going. Don't stop thinking, don't stop moving, and don't let one interfere directly with the other. You don't think about which road to retreat down when the enemy is closing in, you just choose one and __**run!**_

"_**The keys! **Take one to the second floor!" He started screaming before he was all the way down the stairs, fighting off his flight instinct as he saw the horrified Mochi sitting on the fourth floor and side-stepped around it to shout the rest of the instructions. "Hide the other key under the rug in the fireplace room! **Do not fail them!**" Feliciano jabbed his arm in the direction of the room, then grabbed the banister and flung himself down the next four stairs to start down to the third floor._

(Go! Front door! Get to the front-!)

_Not the front door._

(What!-?)

_The library._

_He was sweaty and bloody, his hair snapping in his eyes when he found his path blocked by a monster whose neck was so long it looked like he could snap it with a well-aimed kick. But he knew better than to take the bait, he could hear the heavy footsteps of another super-sized monster approaching from the left- a blind corner that he couldn't see around. Dive through the gap between the first creature and the wall, roll and kick off the other side of the hall to keep going. Don't stop breathing, don't stop running._

_Down to the second floor with one of France's knives in hand. He plunged it into the wall and used it as an anchor as he swung himself around, feet in the air and momentum maintained. He left the knife behind and ignored the bruises down his back from falling the rest of the way down the staircase. Hands and knees, he clawed at the floor before his boots found traction and he was off again like a shot, just one glance spared towards the front door._

_Just one guard that way, standing there with such a curious look on that face. A smile on those lips, and a tilt of that head as fingers caressed that cape. But nothing in those eyes. Those glassy, mirror-ball eyes..._

_Draw another dagger, don't hold your breath, keep running. Time heals all wounds so don't hesitate, just hold the key in your hand and make a tight fist, place the knife point right inside the elbow and-_

(What-?)

_**-pull!**_

(_NO! __**VENEZIANO!**__ NO! NO! NO!)_

"_**GO!**" The library door was still open, the monsters were not inside, his past self still was and, if he remembered anything through the pain, it was that when he'd been the one standing at the clock he'd been too confused to argue. "**GO NOW! GO**** BACK!**"_

_White lightning and gold chains filled the air, the chime of a grandfather clock rocking the house on its foundations and sending him skidding to the floor well beyond the range of the first journal's magic- his journal negated the effects anyways, it wouldn't go along with itself, it refused to, and therefore he couldn't go either._

(No... no... little brother... why would you...?)

_Instead Feliciano was left kneeling in agony, his hand pressed down over the bloody limb he'd mangled with the knife. But it had to be done, he'd had to do it, it was the only way it would work and if he wasted this try on something that only **might** succeed then he would condemn everyone, including himself. _

_He couldn't carry that weight anymore. He'd sacrifice his arm for his soul._

(Why...?)

_The energy calmed, the magic faded, the lights dimmed down and through the sweat dripping down his face and the tears pouring from his swollen eyes, Feliciano could see the clock still standing there. It was an ornate, beautiful thing. Solid oak wood stained a luxurious and stately red, a colour that made him sick to look at but it was still captivating just the same. A gold face and weights, a pendulum decorated in silver with brass braiding all up the sides to increase the beauty. Pure black wire hands twisted in elaborate fingers symbolized seconds, hours and minutes, two smaller faces set up in the gold backing to indicate the day of the week and month of the year. It was so quiet until you started focusing on it, the tick-tock, the tock-tick, the heartbeat in the centre of the trauma._

_The clock would fade away and hide itself again if he took his eyes off it. He didn't know how he knew that for certain, but he couldn't afford to argue, not with a wound like this._

_So when he heard Holy Rome's footsteps behind him, heard that laugh creeping through the dark towards him... _

(G-Get away from my brother, damn it!)

_When he felt those hands rest kindly on his shoulders, and felt those soft breaths touch his cheek and roll down his jaw..._

_**Tick-tock, tock-tick...**_

"_You've hurt yourself, Ita..." That **voice**... His eyes just wanted to drift shut when he heard that voice, when he felt that smooth cheek press against his and knew that black hat was being tilted just off his head because of how close they were. But the clock, it was right there. "You should be more careful, my dear one."_

_**Tock-tick, tick-tock...** Such a broken sound, that heartbeat._

_"...You killed my brother." Don't close your eyes. It was just like '**don't stop running'**and **'don't stop thinking'**and **'don't stop breathing****'**. He couldn't close his eyes, if he did he'd lose the clock._

"_So we could be together..."_

"_You're not him." Don't close your eyes, don't close them, the message had to get through..._

(Message...?)

_**Tick... tock... tock... tick...**_

"_You gave your heart to me... Ita..." Don't look at him, don't look at the hand that stroked the shredded sleeve he was holding shut, the simple touch made him recoil violently, hot blood spilling over his legs. Don't watch __**those**_ _fingers slip past __**those**__ lips so __**that**__ tongue could taste __**his**__ blood... "And I-"_

"_-and I'm showing yours to someone." Someone who had to get the message. He had to. Fratello,_ _**you **__**have to-**_

(Woah- _wait!_ You can hear m-! ?)

"_... **Ita.**" That voice. That voice poisoned with the low sound of a threat. That voice tainted with the sting of a serpent's hiss._

"_Again." It was deep enough now, he couldn't push it any further. His hand came away from his mangled arm and the journal was open in front of him the next moment. Feliciano didn't even know what page he opened it to, he just slammed his palm down over the bloody text and smeared the dark crimson over the page. _**"**_**Again!" **__He kept his eyes on that golden clock face, he ignored the terrible pain of those hands clenching his shoulders and bruising, stabbing, tearing._

_White fire and yellow stars, blue comets and green rain, the bellowing chimes of the clock as the hour struck and the journal unleashed its power. Time came apart like the fibres of a rope, the colours of a tapestry. He heard the heartbeat pounding through it all, felt it pumping the life-blood of this hellish place like it was about to give out from the strain._

_Feliciano turned and looked at the grey-skinned, mirror-eyed monster that had dragged his soul here, he bared his teeth at it like a grin. _

_And he screamed:_ "_**Just TRY and catch me next time!**__"_

_And then he was gone._

_**Tick**...** tock**... **tock**... **tick**... **tick**... **tock**... **tock**... **tick**..._

_And the heart kept beating._

* * *

><p><strong>Someone... in HetaOni used daggers, but I can't remember which one it was. I know Belarus and Korea do, and I know France uses a rapier and not knives, but it made sense to me that France would have a couple on him anyways.<strong>

**Again, if that was just too much Italics text for you then please let me know and I can swap this chapter with the inverted one. Absolutely no content changes, just a reversal of the italics/basic fonts.**

**See you next chapter! Since New Years Eve I've completed just under 30,000 words on this project alone! Lots of chapters! Yippee! **


	10. Big Brother Russia

**Hetalia Playlist. Utopia, Get Out Alive, Memories.**

**I've been watching HetaOni in parts throughout the writing process, so I feel the need to point out that I'm completely aware that this story will fall apart as soon as the next update comes rolling in- but I don't care! Not yet! My headcannon has changed thanks to the HetaOni "Extras" too, but it's too confused for me to try putting into a fic. XD**

**If you haven't seen the extras, youtube it and it should crop up. Most of the video just recaps episodes 1-11 through alternative POVs (Prussia, France, Romano, etc.) and it includes the prologue which I found heartbreaking because Ita wants to see Romano and ;A;. **

**SPOILERS BROKE MY MIIIIIND.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

Big Brother Russia

"_Something's gonna to go wrong..." Well, there wasn't much that _could_ go wrong, so perhaps Canada would elaborate? "Please don't patronize me." Russia smiled, he knew it was mean but he did it anyways._

"_This Italy's plan is simple, straight-forward, and difficult to get wrong. I like it." The air was tense, the only talking was being done in low voices, hushed whispers with heads close together. _

_Any minute now, they were going to escape..._

* * *

><p>"Belarus, today you will walk next to me."<p>

These words surprised Belarus. They rung in her ears long after her tall, soft-spoken brother uttered them. It was not something she expected him to say, and when he repeated the command to Ukraine she was surprised by the lack of jealousy she felt. In her own way, Belarus was glad that her big sister was told to stay close to her and their brother.

In contrast, Russia told the other former members of the Soviet house to leave him alone. All of this made Belarus' close, warm feelings grow stronger as they moved through the large dining hall in the conference centre. He wanted to walk with her, he wanted to be with her, Russia wanted Belarus by his side today, because she was special to him. Ukraine was special too but not like Belarus was- he'd asked her first, he liked her more, that was how her big brother felt about her. Her memories were not wrong, Russia really did love her.

Her brother was wearing the new scarf she and Ukraine had purchased for him- his old one had been lost in his escape from the mansion. Belarus chose to ignore the memories of them giving her brother the gift once before; obviously that had __not__happened, otherwise she wouldn't have been able to give her brother the dear gift when he got back.

Russia looked good in the dark charcoal grey suit he was wearing- the suit Belarus had picked out for him. The outfit framed his tall body and the cane-sword disguised as a faucet was still in his hands. She did not like the weapon but he was very fond of it, so Belarus became fond of it in order to please him. He looked tall and impressive today, moreso than usual since her brother was obviously tall and always impressive and captivating and inspiring. He moved directly through the crowd to try a bit of what was out for breakfast, though he ate very little, because Belarus was convinced the food was simply not good enough for him. He wanted good food from home, not bad food from Switzerland's ugly hotel.

The girls followed him as Russia exchanged a few quiet words with China, who did not love her brother as much as he should after everything Russia had done for him. China should not have touched their brother's arm the way he did, he wasn't good enough to make close contact like that, and China even did it with a look she would almost have called concern. She wanted him to back off and go talk to his annoying siblings again, leave her brother alone once Russia had finished telling him whatever was so important, so it was all very brief.

Russia had... changed. She wasn't quite sure how, or how many of the changes would remain once he was back in Moscow, but for now he was certainly... different. Moscow would change him back, Russia's capitol was a beautiful city, his heart would beat freely once he was home again, with her, where he belonged. But for now he was different, and that annoyed her. Not quite as severe as when he had been part of the Soviet Union, but still... distant. Hard. Hurting...

She would not have added the last one if she had not found him the way she did that morning. Russia was not a nation who hurt, he harmed others, scared them and wounded them and left them crying in the corner feeling terrible about themselves, but Russia himself did not hurt. Belarus was convinced she had not really seen him properly, that she was misinterpreting what had happened. But still, right before he told her to stay by his side Belarus had come into her brother's hotel room and found him staring at the jacket he had worn during his captivity. It bothered Ukraine that Russia refused to either get rid of or wash the long grey coat, but until that morning Belarus had been alright with it. Russia knew what was best for him, he knew what to do with his own clothes: that was what Belarus had been saying all week and she still wanted to believe it.

But now she'd seen the back. Which is what Russia was looking at when she came in: the back o her brothers long grey military coat. He'd hung the jacket up in its clear plastic case and left it on the bathroom door, and it occurred to her only when she saw it there that Belarus hadn't bothered to check what her brother looked like from behind after they appeared back in the city. She had been too captivated by the rest of him, shocked, horrified, heartbroken. She had wanted to kiss his depressed feelings away, not worry about what he looked like from behind.

But on the back were hand-prints. There were two of them, bright red and planted on her brother's back like he'd been shoved- and more than once. The garment was filthy from top to bottom, but the hand-prints weren't the same as the splashes and droplets and small, oozed patches that stained it. They weren't freakishly complete either- the hands that left them had not been soaking in blood, but they were still visible, still clear. There was blood pressed on the shoulder and arm too, like someone had grabbed her brother. Like someone had __dared__to grab her brother.

There was a large splash of blood across the back, down near where his knees would be when he wore it. It was enough to make her wonder if her brother's legs were injured, but then Belarus remembered that Russia had not been limping, nor had his pants been torn. Watching him wander around the room getting breakfast she reminded herself again that no, obviously he had __not__been injured. He was not suffering to recover from something the way that fool England was- a week out of that mysterious mansion and the Briton was still nursing his wounded shoulder.

Belarus' big brother was not injured, but he was hurting. Something deep inside of him was in pain, so while she watched him not eat breakfast and followed behind him with Ukraine, she kept her eyes on her big brother, trying to see his face. He had not looked at her properly since they'd left his hotel room together.

When Belarus finally managed to look at his face, Russia was taking a sip of his coffee and had pulled his new scarf down so she could see him. For some reason she had expected to see something familiar in his blue eyes, but the frigid look in them scared her instead. It was not Russia's usual coldness, it was not the crystallized sadness that General Winter brought to him every year, or the suppressed frustration of not enough food for too many mouths, or the hurt of work-camps and faulty prosecution of innocent people, this was something very different. Did she recognize it? Somehow...

__'I think... the Bolshevik revolution...' __When her brother had become so incensed by self-hatred and forced to the very limits of his sanity. __'But this is still much different.' __Because Russia had taken great strength in the conviction of his people, their ability to move as one powerful force despite the horrors of civil war. Russia had almost lost his mind along with his identity when he founded the Soviet Union, but he had felt satisfaction even in the midst of the slaughter. This look was not the same.

__'When Germany broke the Non-Aggression Treaty...'__During the War, when Germany's boss had decided to stop focusing on England and take on Russia instead, despite him not having been involved. __'No...' __Because when that happened Russia had been upset but not so surprised. His sadness and hurt had been tempered by rage, by the inability to trust the German to keep his word to begin with.

"You." This was not a look to mask hurt feelings, or the giddy rage of revolution and change. When Russia stopped in front of Switzerland and Liechtenstein he addressed only the taller blond: the former mercenary who was dressed in the same camouflage militia garb he always wore to World Summits. Russia's voice was not quiet, but was spoken at a volume most would find normal. It was then that Belarus realized that big brother was angry, that what he was feeling encompassed all the different levels and shades of anger. "Today, you will read." Most people spoke at a clear volume but Russia's voice was always very soft: the way he spoke now was as good as a shout.

Anger, outrage, fury, disgust- each one was infused into her big brother. It was... it was sca-

"Yes." Liechtenstein was shaking beside her own brother- why was she so scared? But Switzerland was holding a small cup of coffee in his hand like nothing was going on, looking up at the much taller nation. He looked... "I have already spoken to Austria and as soon as breakfast is over I will read... And then you and I will talk."

No. Belarus knew her brother's answer without having to hear him say it. Whatever happened after the reading today, there would be no __talking___..._

* * *

><p><em>Russia had to admit, he didn't like the idea of running away. He would much prefer to stand and fight, to watch that creature suffer an eternity of frigid cold and starvation. But this Italy was not someone to cross: he had already shot poor England and he had threatened to keep shooting until he had their complete and unwavering support. It was surprising how easily Russia found himself able to respect this Italy. But more shocking than that was how he felt a little bit afraid of him too... So strange.<em>

_Any minute now..._

* * *

><p>Liechtenstein had learned who she felt most comfortable sitting near during readings. Her big brother was an obvious choice, so she always kept Switzerland to her right side while the rest of their table was filled by Hungary and occasionally Ukraine. The two female nations made Liechtenstein feel safer, they made it feel better to cry a little when Italy's voice began to move through the chamber and paint those violent, compelling images for them.<p>

She cried a lot more than she thought she would as her big brother took his turn at the podium, Belarus and Ukraine were both seated at the next table over and flanking their brother. Switzerland had told her after __she'd__read from the book that he was waiting for a specific place in his memories to stand up. He called it his burden, his cross, and he would carry it without help. He wouldn't even tell her what it __might__be about, she just knew that her brother hadn't slept at all last night. Switzerland was not a heavy drinker, but he had gone down to the hotel bar for most of the night- she only knew this because Scotland had dragged him back to their room only a few hours before breakfast was called. It worried her to see him act this way, her poor big brother...

The pages he read formed one of the worst kinds of memories for Liechtenstein: the kind where she saw what Mr. Italy had seen, heard what he'd heard, felt what he'd felt, but she also had her own memories to deal with as they surfaced. So Liechtenstein was in three places all at once: she found herself sitting between Hungary and Austria, grasping their hands so tight in both of hers that she was sure she was going to hurt one of them, even if she didn't want too.

And she was standing outside in the rain, scared as she squeezed the trigger of the pistol her brother had given her, her arms already bruised from the harsh recoil. But the gun was just clicking without firing- either jammed or empty, and she was too scared to take her hands off it to try and find another magazine to reload.

And she was trapped inside the mansion on the second floor with Yao and Matthew and Ludwig and Ivan, watching the last one scream and yell and pound with all his might on the window facing out the front. The tall man was hysterical, tears running down his face as he beat the unrelenting glass- his sword already broken on the floor where he'd snapped the blade and then shattered the spigot trying to get out. But Feliciano knew Mr. Braginski didn't even want to get himself out, he wasn't trying to escape: he was screaming himself hoarse trying to force his voice out instead. He wanted to scream out through the rain, out the few hundred yards it would take to reach Liechtenstein, Hungary, Belarus, and Ukraine before they fell, one by one, to the muddy ground and didn't get back up.

Only after they watched this did Feliciano and Ivan notice something else through the window. Italy didn't write down what it was exactly, but Liechtenstein saw it through her own blurry, blood-stained vision where she'd been flung down to die. And she heard it too, the footsteps and screaming before the explosive sound of a high-calibre rifle began blasting through the air.

She didn't get to see her big brother's face before she died, and Liechtenstein didn't know what he looked like at the podium either. But she heard him screaming in one memory and his voice- always so calm, and so carefully used, break into forced coughs as he tried giving life to Feliciano's words in the present. Liechtenstein knew Ukraine's tears matched hers at the next table, and that Miss Hungary was petting her hair trying to sooth her crying. She knew that Belarus, because she was too proud to hide them, was keeping her chin up proudly despite the tears running down her face. And she knew that Mr. Russia was leaning forward at his table, unmoved, fingers woven together and supporting his chin.

Liechtenstein didn't know what Russia was feeling, but she was so, so scared of whatever was going to happen next. She didn't even know what would happen when Belarus' brother and her big brother spoke again, but she was so, __so scared___..._

* * *

><p><em>And then they were running, running as fast as they could, running for their lives.<em>

_And very quickly after that, Russia realized what had gone wrong._

* * *

><p>"One hundred yards."<p>

"You can't kill me in my own capitol, Russia."

"No, but I can try_._"

Neutrality meant that when your neighbours all started fighting one another, you weren't going to get involved. Neutrality meant shooting down Allied planes along with the Axis ones that tried using your air-space. Neutrality meant monitoring the Germans _and_ the Italians _and_ the French _and_ the Greeks _and_ the Austrians, _and _the English, _and_ any other nationality that had business coming near you or your sister's borders.

But neutrality didn't do a whole hell of a lot to deflect a heavy Russian fist when it sailed into your jaw and shattered any pretences of a peaceful, if incredibly tense, discussion. It might have if Russia had done it in front of everyone (or really _anyone_ else), but Switzerland had agreed to follow the slavic nation outside and around the side of the hotel, leaving his sister with Hungary. He aware of the danger he was putting himself in- but he knew what he was doing.

He cracked the back of his head against the wall of the building after Russia punched him, stars filling his eyes from the unexpected pain. It had been so _long_ since anyone had-

"One hundred yards, Switzerland." Russia's hand- his _throat-!_ "Are you really telling me you didn't hear anything?" Switzerland clenched his jaw and locked a hand around Russia's wrist, aware of the pressure the other nation was exerting around his throat, Russia's knuckles digging under his jaw while his fingertips bit sharply into the sides of his neck. "I was locked up inside of that mansion, I was exhausted, our safe room had been destroyed and we didn't know how many of us were dead." He sounded like a child, that was the worst part about Russia when he was upset, he had the voice of a _child_- "I had only a little window to look out of, Switzerland, tell me why _I_ saw everything while _you_ noticed nothing."

Neutral or no, Switzerland wasn't just going to stand there and choke. As soon as he could tell which hand Russia had on him- the right, he moved. He turned his head until his throat was against Russia's palm rather than his bruising thumb, bracing himself on the wall with his own right before hooking his left arm up over Russia's. He didn't care what the other nation's face did, he didn't care if Russia punched him in the back, he just got his arm in place and snapped his elbow straight, slamming the back of his hand into his assailant's face and putting enough weight on that arm to force Russia's elbow to bend.

The hold broke. Switzerland felt several strands of hair rip off his scalp from Russia's grip before he was free, closing his eyes and tucking his shoulder in so when Russia's fist slammed into the back of his head he was prepared to hit the ground and roll. The concrete wasn't very forgiving and his arm felt sore as he came up in a crouch, but that didn't keep him from having his SIG out as soon as he came up on one knee. Both hands wrapped around the familiar grip, the weight and tug of the pistol comfortable against his-

Russia's pipe walloped the air and collided with the gun, Switzerland swearing as his left hand took some of the impact and the pistol was sent flying. It struck the wall next to them and ricocheted back behind him, out of reach. Russia was speaking before Switzerland was up on his feet again.

"-not going to be shot by the same gun twice. It's the same one you gave Italy, da?"

"_Don't!_"

"The same one you gave _Devoushka_ Lichten-?" He'd had his warning!

Switzerland lunged and wrapped both hands around the pipe as it came up horizontally to block him, his head down as Russia took a step back. The two of them stayed like that for a moment, brute strength locking the weapon between them.

The bastard! Did he honestly believe Switzerland had done it on __purpose?__ He'd known there would be trouble once this came up, once he had to own up to it in front of everyone: it didn't matter how kindly Italy had put it in his damned journal- Switzerland had been less than a hundred yards away from the fight that _killed_ his own sister! Forget Belarus and Ukraine, who had been part of the Soviet union, who knew how to fight when the chips were down. Nevermind Hungary who was probably the most manly and abusive person on the entire fucking continent- __Liechtenstien!__ Switzerland's_ sister!_ And even if it was just a formality, even if she lived with him because he'd saved her, not because they'd fostered and protected one another while growing up, it didn't matter- __Liechtenstien!__

She didn't even have her own police force for God's sake! Her borders were practically non-existent- Switzerland was her __only__ protection! And he'd failed! Fine, so what if Russia was mad about his sisters: he'd been trapped inside unbreakable walls and thick windows, he'd been helpless because of circumstance and shitty luck. Switzerland had no excuses! His sister had been torn apart- __ripped to pieces!___-_ and he'd only been a hundred yards away!

And no one could say it hadn't really happened, because it had: at the same time in another place, it had happened. Out there in the cosmos existed a reality in which Liechtenstien had been ripped to pieces and Switzerland only realized it after Hungary finally screamed. Because none of them had screamed. Not one of them had made any noise- and if they had then it hadn't carried over the sound of the rain, and that felt impossible, because he should have noticed__something...__

"And they died, one hundred yards from you, __my sisters ___**_**died**_**___...____**!**___"_

__"Mine too!"__

Switzerland twisted the pipe up by pulling down with his right hand and pushing up with the left. Neither of them had a dominant grip on both ends: Russia had a strong grip on the bent spigot and Switzerland controlled the bottom end. While he twisted one way Russia put his weight behind tearing the weapon in the opposite direction. They kept struggling but in brute strength the northern power had him beat: Switzerland's arms were shaking.

Switzerland kicked his leg out and tried hooking his ankle behind Russia's, but his opponent responded by abruptly giving in and taking two fast steps back. The blond stumbled and a sound kick to his gut forced him to drop his left hand from its strong position around the pipe.

He grabbed that offensive leg before Russia could bring it back down. Letting go of the pipe all together Switzerland wrapped his hands around the foot and twisted the limb violently so the knee and hip would be torn out of alignment- turning it _away_ from Russia's body rather than into it. He did it fast and Russia lost his hold on the weapon as he cried out instead, his large form hitting the ground before he turned it into a roll to get away.

Going for the pipe where it clattered to the ground, Switzerland kept one eye on his opponent as he swept down and-

"_STOP!_" -gripped the sword, only to have a heavy foot slam down on it and pin the weapon in place. Thrown off as his fingers were sharply pinched and his momentum kept going, Switzerland let himself drop down into a crouch next to the newcomer's leg rather than fall face-first to the concrete. Freeing his hand, he found himself unable to recognize who was standing between himself and Russia, but the larger nation was already getting back on his feet, the air temperature dropping around them.

"Stay out of this, Canada." Canada? In that case-

Staying on one knee, Switzerland reached over his shoulder for the butt of the rifle he wore strapped to his back. It had been knocked around when he'd hit the wall and bruised his side when he rolled with it attached there, but in one deft motion the long weapon was out and in his hands. The standard-issue Swiss Sturmgewehr 57 was tucked against the strong muscle between his chest and shoulder, the sight unnecessary at this range as he lined the barrel up with Russia's body, prepared to squeeze the trigger if the other nation _so much as_-

"-! ?" Canada twisted around and his hand came down around the barrel of the gun, the reckless act shocking Switzerland until an elbow abruptly collided with his forehead, dead-centre. His vision went white and all the feeling drained out of his body for an instant, like an embargo had just been clamped on him. The stun was temporary and faded with Switzerland reeling on the ground, one hand pressed against his head. The voices took a moment to filter.

"Do it." Russia's voice- Canada had the rifle pointed at him, warning Russia not to come closer. "Avenge him." The former Soviet Union had his arms open, hands spread. Switzerland couldn't see their faces, he just heard Canada's voice.

"...No."

They were remembering something...

* * *

><p><em>Russia was not fast, he had never been very fast. When you were as big as he was you didn't go from one end of the country to the other very quickly. When you were as cold and hostile as he was you didn't go<strong> anywhere<strong> if you didn't have to._

_But Italy was a fast country, especially at running away, so he led them out. Prussia was always ready to go, and once he had his orders Germany could keep pace with his brother. America never stopped moving anyways, and once he started France would never stop, and even a wounded England wouldn't let himself be out-done by his eternal rival. Japan could never make up him mind, but Italy had already made the decision for him so he moved without complaint. China complained a great deal, but he was right on America's heels._

"_Russia!" Which left Canada, who hated rushing into anything too quickly, and Russia himself both lagging behind._

"_Don't look back!" But once they reached the front door Italy was there still, waiting. His bloody arm was propping that vault door open, the key wedged in place by his other hand to keep the door's steel pistons retracted and its enchanted glyphs faded. Italy shouted the words at Canada and pushed him out the front door, looking back and grabbing Russia by the shoulder to literally force him out into daylight. "Run! Just run!"_

_It felt like leaping from a helicopter, moving from the sinister but familiar interior of the mansion to the chaotic and frightening wilderness around it. Suddenly there was noise- and not just the oppressive half-sound of the monsters breathing down his neck, not the mindless chatter of ghosts and devils. There was wind shrieking past Russia's ears, cold hands grappling with his scarf and winding it tight around his throat, tighter than it should have been. He was assaulted by daylight- half-light really._

_He looked up and the grey world was clouds and blue sky, dark grey blankets of moisture spitting down on them even with the sun blazing over head. He trampled grass under his boots and chased Canada's blond head, the other northern nation following orders and refusing to look back at him. Russia could hear Italy's footsteps pounding the earth behind him, heard him shouting._

"_Don't stop! Whatever you do, Russia, just don't stop!" Not until they crossed out of the property, not until they reached the moss-covered pillars, and even then maybe not until they started feeling like themselves again. Not until he was the Russian Federation again, not until they were safe. Free. "GO! As fast as you can! You have to run!"_

_But when you were as big and stubborn as Russia, you don't move very fast. Why didn't Italy just pass him? He wanted to shout at him to do so but the Italian stubbornly remained out of sight, and Russia's cold lungs couldn't pull in enough air to run and scream at the same time. So he just ran, and ahead of him he saw Canada almost chance a look back before the younger nation found a sudden burst of speed and took off on ahead._

_He was America's brother, after all. Canada knew how to move when his life was on the line. And he wasn't like Italy: he wasn't willing to die so Russia could feel better about not keeping up._

_And then something-_

* * *

><p>Guilt.<p>

"_Russia!_"

Guilt. That was what he felt, it was _guilt_. So strange...

"_Canada no! Please don't!_" Russia wasn't watching the rifle in Canada's hands, he was watching Canada's face. They'd been in the back, they'd been the slowest, they'd been the last ones to reach the edge of the cursed lands. But Canada had still been so much faster than Russia, he hadn't ruined everything the way Russia had.

He was standing there, arms held open and waiting for Canada to pull the trigger. It wouldn't kill him, he was a Nation again, Ivan Braginski was safe in the heart of the Russian Federation and not even the point-blank shot from a high-calibre military rifle would change that. But he was still waiting for it, and part of him was still upset when he saw Canada, saw Matthew, who was standing there in the simple brown, boring, easily-missed suit he always wore to world meetings, reach up and force the bolt handle back, revealing the single round already resting in the chamber. The long brass cartridge was knocked out of place and chimed against the concrete, the gun rattling again before Canada's thumb flicked the safety on and his hand deftly travelled down to remove the magazine protruding from the belly of the weapon.

The magazine was thrown at Switzerland, who had recovered enough from his blow to the head to sit there and watch what was happening. Canada's eyes never left Russia's face, but with the rifle empty he finally lowered it again and just stood like that, silent and firm. His eyes had a habit of shifting from violet to blue and back again, representing the climate he shared with Russia along with everything else that bound him to America. Right now they were a deep, royal indigo: they stared without blinking and they showed how stubborn he felt. His eyes showed how Canada didn't care if he was ignored everywhere else because right now he was going to make sure they both heard him.

But somehow those eyes also reinforced the fact that he wasn't going to judge them. Canada had struck Switzerland for trying to fight around him, and he would attack Russia if the larger nation made a move towards the conveniently neutral republic. But it was clear, in fact it was down right _obvious_, that Canada didn't care who'd started the fight. He was ending it. He was the peacekeeper. Russia was completely absolved so long as he agreed to stop fighting.

It was cruel to let him go without so much as a warning... It was naive of Canada to keep believing there was no one to blame.

* * *

><p><em>He tripped, he fell, a hand reached up out of the ground and grabbed him, or maybe he just got tired and stopped. Even in the moment it happened, <strong>as it happened<strong>, Russia didn't know which was the right answer. All he knew was that one moment he was running, and the next he was face-down on the wet grass and nettles. His scarf was coiled around his neck like a noose, strangling him like a snake as his hands raked the undergrowth and he kicked his feet down into the moist earth, struggling to get up only to feel the scarf jerk him back down again._

_He was going to die._

_It hadn't been so strong since the Mongol Invasions, it hadn't been so real since the collapse of the Soviet Union. Russia was going to **die**._

"_NO! Get up! **Up!** Come on!" Italy's voice, Italy's hands ripping at the scarf strangling him, Italy's gun shooting something behind them before suddenly the tension around Russia's throat was gone. His scarf was gone too, but before he even noticed it he felt Italy's mangled, bloody hand grab his jacket and hoist him up by the shoulder. _

"_RUN **NOW!**" A shove on the back to get him going as he found his feet, and Russia was running again. More gun-shots, more wet grass and flashes of sunlight, more infantile laughter and repeating chatter. He heard himself panting madly, almost losing his footing again before Italy's hand took his arm and kept him up, another shove and the terrified sounds the other man was making behind him. "As fast as you can! Don't look back!"_

_Don't look back, don't look back._

"_We're almost there!" _

_How could Italy speak and run at the same time?_

_"Look! Just ahead!"_

_H-He could see it! The end! Russia couldn't see the others, just Canada's back before a white light enveloped the other nation- escape, freedom, the end!_

_Ten yards, five yards, two yards- he could see the others, he could see the way the light bent, how time changed. He could feel-_

"_GO! Go and don't look ba-!"_

* * *

><p>He felt Belarus lock her arms around his torso and bury her face in his chest, his little sister gripping the fabric over his back and pulling tight. She wasn't making any noise, that was Ukraine who stepped in front of him, arms out-spread and facing Canada. Ukraine was yelling. She was screaming and crying; begging Canada not to hurt Russia, which was silly since he'd already taken the dangerous parts out of the gun.<p>

As scary and terrible and frightening as Belarus could be, as overbearing and headstrong and disturbed as she usually was, Russia folded his arms around his little sister. And he forgave Ukraine's hysteria and eccentrics, her obsessive moods and sudden insecurities. Canada didn't even say anything to her, he just gave her the same stare he'd focused on Russia, and she took that as a sign that he wasn't going do anything bad. He kept his foot on Russia's sword, the pipe still resting on the ground, but when Ukraine turned around and flung her arms around Russia's neck and started weeping into his shoulder, the other nation bent down to retrieve the weapon. After that, Canada just turned away to give them their moment. He seemed calm, maybe even relieved...

And Russia really, truly wished that Canada would just be angry with him instead.

* * *

><p>"<em>Again?"<em>

_He could feel... the hot spray of blood across his back. He could feel the shock course through another body, suspended in time, behind him. Russia could hear his friends screaming on the other side, he could see the terror and the anger, the shame and the humiliation, the denial and disbelief, the heartbreak and the guilt and the hysteria._

_Russia fell, more than ran, across the line. He was pulled, not propelled, out of hell and back onto earth. His body burned and his soul bled, and it wasn't metaphorical, it was literal. Ivan Braginski, a name he had shared so few times with so few people, was crushed under the girth of the Russian Federation. His mind fell to pieces before it all came surging back together in a wave of awareness and pain. He knew, without knowing, that a black-out swallowed Moscow as soon as he crossed the line. He was so blinded by tears and drained of strength that his homeland had no power left to run itself._

_He gripped Canada's hand because it was the first thing he found in the chaos, and when the world flashed white and then calmed down to an eerie, quiet depth... He wished he was a thousand, thousand miles away. He wanted the cold of the north, he wanted the grim determination of his people. He wanted the acceptance of hardship that had protected you against more hardship. He wanted the reassurance that things could always, always get worse no matter how bad they already were. Because this was too painful, and Russia didn't think he could handle anything worse, but if he could survive this then that would make him... a survivor._

_The first thing he heard after the ringing in his ears and the wind over the trampled grass was screaming. Japan was screaming. Russia couldn't see him because his head was down on Canada's shoulder where he'd knocked the other nation down. Japan was screaming and China... China was laughing? Or was he crying too? Russia couldn't hear the difference, but Prussia was definitely sobbing, weeping openly like a child and calling out for his brother. Russia didn't know where Germany was, but Prussia kept calling for him._

_France's voice, yelling at America. And America's voice, screaming at France. The curses and grunts of a fist-fight before England wailed at them, his voice thick with tears and pleading for them both to stop. Instead Russia heard them turn on him instead, wolves circling the weakest of the pack. He wanted to cover his ears but instead Russia just kept his head down, he had to listen instead._

_Why had England been stubborn and gotten himself shot? If he hadn't been injured, they wouldn't have had to run next to him. America could have helped Italy, or France could have hung back. They shouldn't have let Italy wait by the door, they should have made him keep running. Why couldn't England have kept his ego in check just once and saved a nation's life? Why did England have to be so useless? How dare England, the Nation-Killer, tell them how to behave? Did he really think he still ruled the world? Did he really think he'd **ever** ruled the world? What would Italy have said about that- if Italy could speak? If Italy wasn't **dead?**_

_England ran out of things to say, but America and France did not. They just kept yelling, and yelling, and England screamed when one of them- Russia didn't know who- attacked the wound in his shoulder. And when he fell the other one started kicking him. And they just wouldn't stop. They didn't stop until Germany's voice- but where was Germany?_

_With his family tearing itself apart it made sense when Canada reached up and wove his fingers through Russia's hair. His head was down so he couldn't lift it up off the other nation's shoulder, Russia wasn't used to crying, he didn't know what to do with the tears soaking into Canada's jacket, he didn't understand why his hands crept up and held onto Canada. But they did, and Russia found that he couldn't let go. The clouds and the sun were spiralling overhead, and Russia just couldn't let go._

"_D... Don't look." Canada's voice was right next to his ear but the words were still so quiet, like they were getting lost in all the noise surrounding them: the sobbing and screaming, the hysteria and hatred. "Don't... don't look at him..." Italy... "Don't look..." Russia felt Canada drop his head until he was leaning down as far as he could with Russia still resting on him. And that was all he kept saying: don't look, don't look at him, don't turn around, don't look back._

_So Russia took a cue from Japan._

"_Ne rega- don't... pas en arr- arrière... ne regardez pas..."_

_He held onto Canada and he screamed._

* * *

><p>"..<em>. Never use me as a shield again.<em>" Switzerland opened his eyes just in time to catch the warning look Canada gave him. The French words were rough and forceful, pronounced harshly but in a way that didn't skew their meaning. At his side, Canada's white polar bear growled threateningly and shook its head roughly, huffing against its master's leg and looking back and forth between the various nations.

Switzerland swallowed his words, his mouth dry as he wrapped his arms a little tighter around Liechtenstein where she'd flung herself against him. She had her arms around his back, hands up behind his shoulders and was pressing her face up under his chin, crying and crying, telling him how she was so... sorry?

"It was the same gun- I should never have asked you for it. You didn't want to give it to me but I kept asking, you wanted me to stay safe but I wandered away!" German and English, her words were tumbling over one another in both languages and she just couldn't stick to on. "And- and then I didn't scream- but if I'd screamed you would have heard me. How could you hear me if I didn't scream? I- I'm so sorry, it's my fault, it's all my fault, and I'm so, _so_-"

Canada was walking away and Switzerland closed his eyes again. He didn't ask for his rifle back, it was sort of like how Russia just let the other country leave with his cane-sword while he focused on his sisters instead. It left Switzerland with just Liechtenstein to worry about, just the young girl he'd promised to protect for over eighty years now... the girl he'd let die in the rain with her friends, just because _he,_ with all of his experience, hadn't recognized what was going on in time to stop it.

So he didn't demand Canada give the rifle back. Instead, he lifted one hand to cup the back of Liechtenstein's head, stroking her hair and making sure she was as close to him as possible without hurting her. Moving his chin over, he was able to lower his head and brush his nose against her cheek, touching the purple ribbon he'd bought her to wear next to her ear. Her hair was damp and her skin was hot, she was crying... Switzerland hated it when she cried like this...

"_Ich liebe dich._" Because he'd rather use a language they both shared than one they'd both learned. He turned his lips against her hair and pressed them to her temple, next to the knot holding her ribbon in place. She was still crying. She was still clinging to him, still holding on tight like he was going to go away again... But Switzerland hadn't gone anywhere, the monsters had never come after him, they'd gone after...

"_I've always loved you, __Lichtenstein._"

* * *

><p><strong>Because Russia and Switzerland are both militarily inclined I had to look up the proper way of breaking holds and countering attacks for their little scrap. I tried to get it as close to right as possible. Also please, for the love of god, don't ever grab a loaded rifle by the barrel, and when you're taking it apart remember that I used 'force' as a descriptive word, not an instruction (never ever <em>force<em> a mechanical device built to kill people to do something it doesn't want too). **

**I don't know why I keep looking up guns when I should be researching stuff for school, but my dad might start asking questions if he sees any more guns pop up on my screen...**

"Ne regardez pas en arrière." **is French for **"Don't look back".

**Sibling love or love-love, take your pick.**

**-.-**


	11. Vatican's Lost Boys

**All Faith Is Lost, Soldiers, Message for the Queen.**

**School, why so serious? I've reached a tricky part of this story (the 14-17 chapter range) and things are starting to slow down for me. It's not for lack of interest (heavens no!), but it's hard trying to write when I'm tired. My goal is to get 14 and probably 15 done over the weekend- they're both about half done. I just have to balance my reading and work schedules with my writing or else things are gonna start getting very messy...**

**Hope you enjoy this chapter! Holy Snap! Another OC!**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

Vatican's Lost Boys

He was the son of Ancient Rome and the father of Italy- North and South. Once he had ruled all of Europe through the love, fear, and mercy of God, but in order to let his sons unify the Papal States had been absorbed into Northern Italy in the nineteenth century. He had only regained his political autonomy and accepted a new name in the twentieth century, and that had only come thirteen years before the war that left his sons in ruins.

Vatican's heart did not belong to either of his cultural heirs, or to his pagan predecessor- the Empire who had converted in his dying hour after persecuting his holy son for centuries. He did not make a habit of leaving his house within the city of Rome, and after nations began to renounce their _official_ state ties to the Holy Church, he'd found himself floating in a very bizarre state of being. He was here, he existed, he was acknowledged and recognized the world over; but his influence was in an entirely different sphere from the rest of the world's nations.

But he did not trouble himself with this. Their indifference and growing unease around him would pass. All would not become one with Russia, but they _had_ been one with God...

_'...Found you.'_ It was very, very rare for Vatican to leave Rome. He tactfully avoided interacting with either of his sons unless it was strictly necessary because he simply couldn't _stand_ them most of the time. They met on Holy Days periodically throughout the year: Christmas, and Easter, and sometimes Veneziano would visit him and complain mercilessly about Lent. These meetings were often stressful and did none of them any good. Vatican no longer enjoyed their company and as time passed his sons continued to push against and reject his holy laws, straying further and further from their faith. Romano outright_ resented_ Vatican's interference in their internal politics, and while Veneziano was usually easier to sit down and lecture, the northern half of the country was apt to just up and dismiss or forget everything he was told as soon as Vatican turned his back on him. His sons were obsessed with this material world while the Vatican had no love for it, there was simply nothing to be done.

"How long has he been like this?" Standing with a rosary in his hand, thin fingers slowly clicking the large resin beads together until he came to the silver cross dangling from his belt, Vatican's white mozzetta felt heavy around his shoulders and arms. His long red cassock reached to the floor and marked him as one equal to a Cardinal: a right bestowed upon him by His Holiness the Pope at the time of his son's unification. He had been busy when the call came, he was _still_ busy, and yet here he was after his boss had instructed him to leave Rome. There was no sense in arguing with divine authority, but he did not have to appreciate the necessary force.

"He has been coming to the cathedral for days, your grace. We let him sleep here but he wouldn't take food or water... One of the sisters found him like this." Hmph. Such behaviour did not suit Romano's personality. His son was a follower of the Lord, and he represented his people well with both his subscription to the Holy Church and his lax emphasis on devotion. Spain should have taught him better, but Vatican knew it was a lost hope.

Collapsed on the stone floor at Vatican's feet was Italiana Romano. Vatican too frustrated to follow world politics the way he used to, although His Holiness took a keen interest most of the time, so he wasn't sure what to make of his son's appearance. Black was not a colour Romano often wore in great amounts, but here lay South Italy completely robed in black from the hat sitting next to him on the floor to the polish on his sleek shoes. He was also dirty, not something any self-respecting Italian man would allow for: least of all in God's House. The grey church dust coating his knees showed he had been praying, his jacket covered in filth from having been tossed about, set down, and slept in for days. There was a small wooden cross and rosary wrapped around Romano's hand and wrist, possibly an old gift from Vatican himself, but despite that it seemed likely he'd just pulled it out of a forgotten sock-drawer before coming here. Who knew.

Romano had collapsed in front of the alter, clinging to the gate which was closed in between mass services. According to the deacon standing off to the side, his son had just finished making another (another?) round of dedications to the Virgin Mother and St. Januarias- Patron Saint of Naples. This was quite unusual.

Vatican laid a hand on his son's face and it was cold, clammy to the touch. How strange. He stood up again and felt the need to wash away the sensation, brushing back a lock of his thin grey hair that had escaped out from under his square red hat. The curl he had inherited from his father and passed onto both of his sons was carefully left free under the hat's corner, the white hairs skillfully avoided by his fingers. He let his touch stray to the crucifix hanging by a heavy chain down in the middle of his chest, wondering how long this was going to take before he could go back to Rome. Irritated, he turned towards the deacon who had escorted him to Romano, making sure he focused solely on the man with his dark eyes.

"Contact the President in Rome, Veneziano will take care of him." It was frustrating that they would have called Vatican to begin with. Perhaps it was mere anxiety over Romano having collapsed in the _Duomo di Napoli_, Vatican's domain in Naples, but it could not have been so hard to summon Veneziano instead.

The deacon's face looked worried again, differently than it had before, and as Vatican watched him with disinterested brown eyes the man did not succeed in pulling himself together.

"We already tried that, your grace." Oh? "The President's office said North Italy has been away at a conference for over a month now, much longer than he was supposed to be. They didn't even know Romano was back in the country." How careless of them. Did this mean that the Italian government had _lost_ Veneziano for the time being?

Hmph. No doubt he was with the heretic Germany then. How disappointing.

"Very well. I will contact him." Vatican took a step to leave and then remembered why that would not do, stopping short and twisting his thin lips in a small grimace, remembering the unconcious nation at his feet. He wanted to go back to Rome, he did not have time for this foolishness. "In the meantime please find a more appropriate place for his brother to rest. The economy is fine so he should wake up soon." Perhaps Romano was drunk, it was not unheard of. Rubbing his thumb over the silver crucifix around his neck, the Micro-nation did not spare a glance back at the shivering half-country behind him.

He would make a quick phone call, and then he would return to his work in Rome.

* * *

><p>Vatican did not own a cellular phone, but the Archbishop's secretary was kind enough to let him use the land-line in the office for his business. He stated that he would be brief, and the grey-haired nation gracefully dialled the memorized number, dismissive of the secretary who was still present. This was taking too long.<p>

Veneziano's phone directed him to voice mail without even ringing. When he tried to leave a message Vatican was informed that the memory bank was full. Hmph. Careless.

Thinking carefully for a moment as he listened to the dial tone, the secretary kindly reminded him that the World Summit had taken place in Bern last month. He didn't have Switzerland's number memorized but he did keep a small black book on his person which had the code neatly organized for him to find. Calling the host nation yielded no new information but rather a surprising number of additional questions...

"_Vatican...?"_ No need to sound so surprised, Switzerland.

"Yes, I am calling to speak with Veneziano- provided he hasn't left yet." And gone off with that kraut-eating barba-

"_Left-? He- I..."_ Speak up, child. Did Switzerland not know how many nations were still visiting him? Was it so impossible to-? _"I'm sorry-"_ Hm? _"I'm sorry, I-"_ There was a definitive click, followed by silence.

"Switzerland?" Well, this was a new sensation. Vatican was not used to being hung up on. It was rather uncomfortable and he decided that he didn't like it very much at all. "_Veh_..." Disconnecting the call on his end, he waited until the dial-tone resumed and then entered the code for Switzerland a second time. When the former mercenary didn't answer at all Vatican hung up with a sour pinch to his lips. Such insolence. At this rate he would miss his train.

Turning the page of his notebook with a bit more force than was necessary, calling France only proved to be so much better. He began simply: was France still in Bern? Yes he was. Were most of the national delegates still in Bern? Yes they were. Did France know where North Italy was? Silence...

"France." Do _not_ hang up on him. The Vatican was _not_ going to tolerate-

"_...Mon dieu..."_ Do not take the Lord's name in-_ "No one told you?"_ This stopped him. It was strange, the words themselves meant very little but at the same time Vatican found his thoughts grinding to a very sharp halt. _"I... I cannot. But quickly now! Give me your number and I will get someone to call you- or I will send Spain to come see you in Rome."_

"I am not in Rome." He was in Naples, and an uneasy tremble in his gut told Vatican that he would not be going home today. "France, where is Veneziano?"

"_..."_

"France."

"_He..._" Answer him. _"He is with the Lord._" That was not- _"Now please, where can we reach y-?_"

Vatican hung up on him. France's words were impossible.

* * *

><p>The Archbishop was in residence and admitted the Micro-nation in with due respect and an ill-concealed sense of curiosity. Vatican felt no insult at the man's keen interest and attempts to solicit information from him; his request was certainly bizarre but was granted without hesitation.<p>

There had been a time, when the Roman Empire was still alive, where the simple act of baking bread had been next to impossible for Vatican without some sort of interruption or scrutiny from his pagan father. If two Christians walked down the street together it would cause a murmur, if they knelt and took bread and wine then they were ridiculed. Kisses on the cheeks and greetings of _'brother'_ and _'sister'_ between unrelated members of the faith had been offensive to the Empire. The Christian identity had been attacked, prosecuted, vilified, condemned and executed numerous times, but he had persisted and his faith had never broken.

So it was not going to break now. It wasn't even shaken. Vatican simply asked to use the kitchen attached to the residence behind the Cathedral, removing his white mozzetta and rolling up the sleeves of his red cassock. His hands had not touched flour and eggs and salt and other such ingredients in centuries, perhaps not since his sons had been taken by the Hasburgs- or when they won their independence from them. He wasn't sure. He formed the dough between his hands, folding and kneading aggressively, a most serious prayer in his heart and enacting itself on the bread.

If the answer was not to be found in prayer, then good works would reveal God's plan for the faithful. Of this, he was certain.

* * *

><p>"...Am I still in the church?" It was dim in this room, the electric light had not been turned on and the yellow drapes over the window tainted the sunlight coming in through the glass.<p>

"No." He kept his voice down, still entertaining the idea that Romano was simply hung-over and would appreciate a softer voice. "You're in a guest bedroom of the Archbishop of Naples' residence." He knew why Romano had phrased his question like that. He considered lying to the half-nation to delay the inevitable, but it was just that: inevitable.

"So why the fuck are you here, you bastard?" For all his many flaws, South Italy probably wouldn't have resorted to profanity if he thought he was still in the Holy Cathedral. For once, Vatican was willing to endure it. "This isn't Rome."

The Holy See was standing across the small room from the bed where Romano had been placed by the deacon and his helpers. Again, the curtains over the bed were drawn shut to keep out most of the daylight. The pale stucco on the walls was slightly cracked in places, but in a way which added character to the residence. A modest desk and chair, a dresser and night stand finished off the room's furnishings. Romano's hat was sitting on the desk, his jacket brushed off and hanging off the back of the chair. His shoes were on the floor next to the bed, and a loose knit wool blanket had been flung over the half-nation's exhausted body.

Romano was now trying weakly to remove the blanket, but Vatican did not move to offer assistance.

"The Archbishop's staff called me. Would you have preferred to see San Marino?" The other member of the Italian house.

"_Fuck no._" The other member that didn't get on especially well with South Italy...

"...You collapsed."

"I know. Is that bread?"

"In God's house, you collapsed." Romano gave him a terribly bitter look, or at least he tried to. His green eyes were hollow, the fire missing from them as the half-nation finally forced himself to sit up on the bed, edging back until he was leaning against the brass tubes making up the headboard. "Yes. Bread. Are you hungry?"

"You burnt it, didn't you?" Vatican did not resent the comment, he accepted the bitterness that rose up and let it diffuse through his system like bitter wine across his pallet. The bread was sitting in a basket with a cloth draped over it, a small knife tucked inside while a pad of butter was next to it on a little dish- both were sitting on the night stand and Vatican carefully removed the cloth. "You always fucking burn whatever you make! How do you fucking eat, you bastard?" He cut off a slice of the slightly blackened loaf, smearing butter across one side before handing it to the mouthy little nation.

For all his protests, Romano stuffed the bread in his mouth without hesitation. Vatican had meant to make him say a prayer of thanks for the food, but instead he just sawed off another piece and handed it over. Something in Romano's eyes told him that God wanted him to eat right now, not speak.

"I am looked after." His reply was several long moments in coming. Vatican decided he wasn't going to get to eat any of the bread he'd made and just deposited the basket in Romano's lap. The other nation wasn't being greedy, the way his hands shook and his eyes focused on the slightly hard, almost blackened lump told Vatican that the response was born from an unnatural hunger.

Unnatural as in, he was not hungry because there was no food for his people. His harvest was not in danger, his exports and imports were not under threat. His economy was not about to collapse and his spending was not out of control. In Romano's unique case, Vatican determined that there was also no immediate threat from the Mafia doing something to violently upset the southern peninsula's constitution.

He was just hungry. Desperately, desperately hungry.

"Veneziano's not your fucking chef!" Romano forced the words around a mouthful of bread, his fingers shaking as he rolled the blackened crust and was ready to stuff it past his lips- but then his statement caught up with him.

Vatican watched Romano crumble very quickly, finding himself staring but unable to stop staring as an unbearable pain welled up in his son's green eyes and caused him to forget the food he had been clutching a moment before. Red painted itself around the rims of Romano's now blood-shot eyes, the colour draining out of his cheeks as he pushed the bread away and swallowed what was in his mouth like it was made of stone. He seemed to shrink in on himself as he shut his eyes, tears leaking down his cheeks as he drew his hands and knees up to hide, dropping his face down as a sob ripped out of his chest.

Even in the last great war, Romano had not broken down quite like this.

"_Don't go-_" Vatican stopped with a hand on the doorway, in his own way frightened by the quiet voice that followed him. He was out of his comfort zone- comforting the lost and in pain was his job, he knew what he was doing and how to do it, such skills never faded even with time, but Romano did not need God right now. He had spent several days searching the cathedral for God and he had either not found him, or it had simply not been what he needed.

"I am going to find your brother-" When prayer failed, good works-

"_No-!_" Good works... Vatican turned despite himself and looked back at the helpless figure on the bed. Romano's face was still buried in his knees and hidden under his arms. There was something pitiful about him that made it difficult to turn away and leave. Even if he'd only intended to go back to the secretary's office and place another call, the Holy See found himself stuck on the thresh-hold. _"_Please stay... Just this once... you jerk._" _What a sad, broken sound that voice was...

Southern Italy never... asked for anything from him. The name-calling wasn't even half-hearted. Stepping back inside Vatican quietly shut the door again, locking out the curious household.

Awkward feelings abounded. Crossing the floor and taking up the chair from in front of the desk, Vatican was careful not to toss Romano's jacket to the floor as he moved the piece around so he could take a seat facing the bed. The rustle of paper caught his attention as he did so; a large bundle was stuffed into the inner pocket of the black garment. It was... bloody...?

"Romano." He didn't want to touch it, he didn't want to sit next to it. He looked at South Italy and when he received no response Vatican swallowed his revulsion and reached for the sealed, folded pages. "Romano. What is this?" The paper crinkled as he touched it, a few flecks of red coming away on his fingers and causing the Holy See to shudder in revulsion.

It was thick. The pages themselves were thin but there were so many of them folded and sealed together that it felt heavy in his hand. What was that? Wax? No, it was just office tape. He wasn't sure how he'd made that mistake but maybe it was the blue threat underneath it that was meant to be pulled so the bundle could be opened up. It was a familiar shade of blue, even under the smear of blood that stained one end of it.

"I can't open it..." Romano wouldn't look up at him, the Vatican giving him a sidelong look before gingerly turning the bundle over in his hand, tempted to toss the vile package down and destroy it. His hesitation was rewarded with the sight of what was written on the opposite side.

_Fratello._ Brother. Vatican would know Veneziano's writing anywhere.

"It's from him."

"_I know..._" But he hadn't opened it. How many days had he been carrying it around with him in his pocket? He'd brought it into the cathedral with him, he must have _meant_ to open it at some point. "You jerk, you read it! I can't look at it..."

Troubling. All of this was troubling. Vatican carefully moved until he was able to slowly sit down on the edge of Romano's bed, the disturbing bundle in his hands as he looked down at it a moment longer, then reached for the blue thread. The string served the same purpose as it would under a wax seal, lifting the adhesive without any fuss and allowing the blood-soaked pages to unfold in his lap.

He was surprised when he saw that only a few leaflets came away. Another bundle was encased inside, Veneziano's handwriting indicating that this one should be opened _"only if you must"_. The you, clearly, was Romano.

Vatican lifted the free pages up and noticed how the paper resembled that of a bible- not an illuminated manuscript, not velum or wood pulp, but the incredibly fine mass-produced paper of the common encyclopedia. But Veneziano had not ripped the pages out of a bible for his letter, the papers were blank except for the bloody writing flowing down them.

He read aloud, ignoring Romano's exhausted protests as the half-nation slowly toppled onto his side on the bed.

"'_Are you at peace, brother?'"_ The Italian was simple, straight-forward. Veneziano had not cramped his writing onto the page, not forced it to conform to the boundaries in front of him. He'd written clearly, but with a rigidity that was not like him. "_'Right now I think that's the only thing I have to look forward to: knowing that you'll finally be at peace instead of struggling to understand everything._

"_'I hope you're not too lonely. Remember that Big Brother Spain will never leave your side, even if you're really mean and nasty to him, you always had a special place in his heart that no one could get near. Try to get along with San Marino, he's really not that much of a bother and just sticks to himself most of the time. And please don't get mad at Papa if he comes by the house looking for something to eat- you know he can't cook!'_ ... Is that supposed to be funny?"

"You burnt the fucking bread!" Hmph. Fair enough.

"'_I wanted to escape, brother. I really did.'"_ What was this terrible thing?_ "'I tried it so many times but I just couldn't leave everyone behind like that. Dying was worth it whenever it_ _happened_." That didn't make any-_ "It scared me. It still scares me. I do not **want **to die, but if you're reading this letter, if you're at peace and I'm not there, then we both know that I didn't make it. But I wanted to.'"_ What... what _happened?_

He kept reading, not because he wanted to but because Vatican felt _compelled_. It wasn't the same as holding the Holy Scriptures though, not like that blessed peace that would wrap around him when he touched the words of the Almighty. This was different. This was haunting, vile...

"_'I couldn't do this anymore, brother. If you're reading this and you're at peace then you have to understand that it means I, too, am at peace. And Italy is at peace, and Italy will be stronger as one nation than we ever were as two. So when you speak of me, big brother, don't call me _Veneziano_ anymore, because what will the people think if Italy talks about Venice like it isn't part of him? Without me you **are** Italy, big brother, and part of my soul will always be with you, so you will be a great nation._

"_'If you are at peace, big brother, then I don't have to tell you that Venice will feel like home to you now. You'll finally learn how to ski too, it's so much fun! Get Switzerland to teach you if you haven't already picked it up. The snow in the Alps is so fresh and clean, and you'll realize why I love being so close to Germany. You won't love him the way I did and that's alright, but you won't get so mad when you see his tourists in Naples or taking pictures in Rome. You'll love them, brother._

"_'You really will love the canals of Venice, and I bet you won't find the Tower of Pisa very funny anymore either! I tell you it's not funny! I tried very hard to build it straight, Fratello, you'll see how hopeless it is the next time you go there!'"_ And that actually _was_ funny. Vatican smiled, he didn't think it appropriate but he did it anyways, hiding the expression from Romano. The last part of the letter washed away his mirth...

"'_If you are at peace, Romano, and all the things I've written here have come true, then I want you to do one- to do two final things for me.'"_ Veneziano had crossed out the word 'one', Vatican read it by accident and was surprised to see the correction. "'_Don't go back for me, Romano. There will be nothing left. Remember the Bible where all nations will become one under God and promise my soul you will not go looking for a body you won't be able to find. Don't look for a body that, like yours, won't rise again on the Final Day. My lands are yours, my people are yours, everything that ever was me is now you. If we are at peace then don't go back for me, Romano._

"_'And take these letters and burn them, let them take the place of the body you can't bury. Do not open the other letters- their words are not for you. If you are at peace then ask Vatican to light a fire for me in Rome, a small fire, not very big, and burn these letters and my blood in it. Let my spirit go to God and have the ashes scattered across our lands- not just the northern ones, brother, but the south too. I guess I like Sicily enough to have my ashes brought there, so take me to Campania and all along the east coast too. I should have given you more paper, but if there is even a thimble-full of ash left then can you ask Vatican to keep them? I know he has one of Grandpa Rome's old badges, please let him keep a little bit of me next to Grandpa.'"_

Vatican stopped. He wasn't surprised that Veneziano had known about the small bronze plate Vatican kept in his private chamber, he was surprised by his own reaction to his son's request. Staring at the wall for a moment, the grey-haired Cardinal focused on his breathing, his brown eyes focused on a crack in the plaster before he closed them slowly, fighting off the burn. He was reading a Will. It was painful to him, he didn't know why.

Romano didn't urge him to continue, he was completely silent behind him on the bed. Vatican swallowed the sore lump in his throat and looked down at the letter again, aware that he was right at the end now.

"'_If you are at peace then do these things for me, brother, the rest will come to you in time. I know you'll make friends with my friends, I know you'll forgive them and will love them because I loved them. I just want you to be at peace, Lovino-'"_ Lovino? "_'-so please don't read the other letters, they're not for you, if you're at peace...'_" At peace... How many times had Veneziano said that already? At peace, at peace, and always an _'if'_.

So what did it mean if, _if_, Romano was... not?

"_'Sincerely, your closest and most devoted brother... Feliciano Vargas.'"_ Veneziano... _Feliciano?_ How was Veneziano's surname the same as Vatican's human one? He'd never, not once, shared it with either of them...

"...Romano." No answer. Vatican took a breath, tasted the air with his tongue caught between his teeth. "_Lovi-_" No. He cut the word off and looked over his shoulder at the same time, or maybe the sight made him break off the name.

Feliciano's words. _If_ Romano was at peace, _if_ Romano and Veneziano were no more, _if_ there was only Italy left, one Italy. From the Alps to the Mediterranean, Sardinia and Sicily, from the coast of the Adriatic to the Ionian to the Tyrrhenian seas. One Italy, one people, one identity.

That was not what Vatican was looking at when he saw his son's face. The pale skin and clenched jaw, the sweat on his face mingling with the tears. Romano's body was thin and contorted, sickly and in pain on the borrowed bedding. His gnarled hands were like an old man's, but they were tangled so tightly in the blankets that he was like a child searching for his mother's affection. Blood seeped past his lips where Romano had bit his tongue to keep silent, his eyes closed and his jaw trembling.

His hand touched the Italian's face before Vatican realized what he was doing. His thumb brushed aside the hot tears as his fingers combed back through Romano's hair, a sympathy he hadn't known in many years coming to life inside of him, quickly followed by scorn.

Not for Romano, no. It was scorn for himself. Love thy neighbour, forgive thine enemy, humility, charity- but not humility for the sake of _appearing_ humble, not charity because one _must_ give. It was selfish to withdraw from a world he had been created to be a part of, to ignore his neighbours to the point where he truly didn't understand what had been happening.

Obviously Romano did. Obviously Switzerland and France and Spain knew what was going on, but not Vatican. He'd been too busy in his house in Rome, focusing on prayer, to do the good works he always preached. He hadn't even wanted to answer the summons to Naples. Vatican was sitting here because he had been _obligated_ to come, not because he'd even considered how Romano could be in some kind of actual trouble.

And now he found out Veneziano was... _dead?_ And if not dead, then something _worse?_ What was all of this? How was any of this even real? Even possible?

"I'm sorry." Romano was... asleep. Not restfully, there was no steady rhythm to his breathing and his body was hardly relaxed on the bed, but he was asleep just the same. Vatican kept his hand tangled in Romano's hair, setting the letters down on the bed between them so he could grasp his son's hand instead. His fingers were cold and shaking, an unnatural state for such a warm nation. "_I'm sorry..."_

Sometimes organizations lost sight of their purpose. They became caught up in the day to day, the week to week, the now-to-the-then of running a massive operation. They got caught up and they lost sight of what all the big plans were really for. The pieces got lost in production and eventually no one could remember why they were doing the things they were doing anymore, why they said the words or gave the blessings or collected the money.

But nations existed to _never_ lose sight of their people. He, Vatican City, the Holy See, the Heart of the Holy Catholic Church, had no excuse.

"I will help you..." Bending down, Vatican closed his eyes and let his forehead rest on Romano's, aware that the other nation couldn't hear him, but he really didn't care. "You will not do this alone, I will not let you suffer like this..." He cared more about what he was saying, what he was resolving to do, and more importantly, _why_ he was doing it. Good works meant even less than empty prayers if they were just works, not devotions. And even devotions were useless if they were only given because of mandates.

"I will help you, Romano. Not because I have to, but because I will not let my sons suffer and still call myself their father..." Vatican was not accountable to the Holy Church, he was accountable only to God...

And God was the one who created him to be a _father_.

* * *

><p><strong>In HetaVerse apparently Vatican is a scary old man who rants at the ItaBros, but since he has never been shown I made up the other character traits. <strong>

**In the real world my research pointed towards Vatican City being more of a powerful lobbyist than a real international player: they influence Catholic communities within larger nations to stall or inact change. Politics and History aside for a moment, even though I kinda wanna poke fun at old Papataly I think if the chips were down he'd want to help anyone he saw going through a legitimate emotional crisis.**

**Why is Vati their 'dad'? Roman Catholicism was the cultural glue that held Europe together after Rome fell, ****so if France, Spain, Veneziano and Romano are all brothers and grandchildren of Rome, then in my head it only makes sense for Vatican to be the 'father' who held their cultures together enough to keep them related. It's just head-cannon, but I really like the idea of a young Vatican/Papal State interacting with his womanizing, battle-winning, pagan father.**

**San Marino is the other Micro-nation that exists in Northern Italy.**


	12. Canada's Bitter Voice

**Memories, Utopia, My Heart is Broken, Run For Your Life, entire playlist.**

**This chapter was supposed to contain a big flashback, but finishing up other stuff with Roma and China took much longer than expected. **

**Of course I get to the 13th chapter and THEN I find out that Google Translate gives you different translations for ALL CAPS versus regular punctuation- sometimes. Unfortunately I don't really trust google that much, and the site didn't support the accents for phonetic Chinese. Sadness.**

**Longer AN at the bottom.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

Canada's Bitter Voice

By train, and on the right train, it only took three hours to get from Naples to Rome. The problem was that Romano couldn't remember when they'd left his city to begin with. When he opened his eyes and found darkness looming outside through the window, Romano was just confused.

"...Where are we?" He couldn't remember what day of the week it was, but the first-class seat cradling his body only had one person next to it. They weren't in a private booth, there were several seats all around them and leading back through the car. It felt empty though, they weren't on a popular train.

Next to him in the dark was Vatican, the Micro-nation holding the bundle of letters Romano had told him to take away. His brown eyes were dulled by whatever he was thinking about, the Cardinal brushing the pad of his thumb back and forth over Veneziano's scribbles. He wasn't reading the letters, thank god, but Romano was almost asleep again by the time his father answered.

"On our way to Venice." What..?

"I thought you said Rome..."

"Now it's Venice." Venice... He... He didn't want to go to Venice... No... "Are you hungry?" He didn't want to go to Venice...

Vatican excused himself to go get something for them from the meal car. Romano just watched him leave without saying anything. The lights had been dimmed so passengers could rest, the plush seat hugging his body was warm- someone had lowered the back for him and placed a blanket over Romano's legs.

He didn't want to go to Venice...

* * *

><p>They could leave now; other nations had already started going home. China was just waiting for one last thing to happen and then he and Hong Kong, and Korea, and Vietnam would all get on a plane and finally go home. He'd told them all that he didn't need them to come to Beijing with him but he wasn't sure if that meant they'd all go home on their own or not. He knew Taiwan would probably stay with Japan but she would have to deal with Greece being there as well.<p>

Unless Japan sent Greece back to Athens. China wasn't sure what the story was with them right now, the two were constantly seen together and Japan didn't seem to mind his partner's close proximity, but for China things were beginning to feel claustrophobic. He actually _did_ want his siblings to leave him alone now, just for a little bit. All China wanted was his people, maybe even his government, and he wanted to be at peace. To go home, to hear his language... that was all China wanted anymore.

And that was was why he was so surprised when Canada approached him and... that was what he heard.

"I- I'm sorry, _what?_"

They'd finished the readings, there was nothing left in the journal- Italy hadn't given a definitive ending for them to process. They didn't know what had happened to Romano, they didn't know how he'd found the front door key or come to the Second Loop to rescue them. There was no answer for the world. But the nine of them, well, they knew more than they probably wanted to admit: they simply didn't want to talk about it.

That was the last thing China was waiting for actually: he was waiting for all nine- all ten? of them to come together, sit down, and finally tell one another exactly what had happened. They were waiting for that last tiny bit of closure.

And that was why Canada surprised him.

"Please... please say it again?" His lips twitched up in a smile but China quickly lifting a hand to cover the reaction. Canada had found and approached him in the hotel garden: it was dark out now, but the Swiss air was warm and sweet with the fading summer. Clear skies, fire-flies, the moon was a bright button stitched to the dark velvet over-head, a few silver clouds strung up around it like a frame.

The North American had been keeping to himself lately, but not as much as his brother: no one could so much as speak to America anymore, he just growled and snapped and stomped away from anyone who tried. But Canada also seemed to be holding the world at arm's length. Maybe it had something to do with growing up so alone together on their continent? They didn't like being surrounded in a crisis? Canada had allowed himself to be taken care of like a puppy by France, but then everything changed after Russia's fight with Switzerland.

Oh, they all knew about that too. The rumour mill said that Russia's boss had thrown a fit in Moscow and was in the city with the rest of them now, apologizing to Switzerland's government. It was strange though, everyone knew that Switzerland would never throw the first punch in an argument and yet the Alpine Republic had apologized too. He seemed to be sharing the blame for some reason, which was weird. China didn't know whether he respected Switzerland more for keeping the peace or found him odd for not taking advantage of the former Soviet Union...

But Canada? It was hard not to respect the very quiet world power that had taken both Russia's sword and Switzerland's rifle as trophies after getting between them. China had seen but not understood why the polar bear cub Canada kept with him had been wandering without its master in hotel that day, or why it had bothered Ukraine, Belarus and Liechtenstein until the three girls noticed that their brothers were gone. China had many good memories of that little bear, he was glad that Kumajiro had followed his master's orders and helped stop the fighting.

So China was curious, and he was doing his best to stop the giggles from bubbling up like they wanted to. It wasn't funny, Canada wasn't laughing, but China couldn't stop it. The young nation looked uncomfortable standing there in the dark with him, his blue eyes staring off somewhere else while China fought with his laughter, waiting.

Canada took a deep breath, and he spoke slowly- poorly too, and he said:

"_Wo wèn: niǐ jué dìng?_"

* * *

><p>Romano woke up when Vatican came back with food. He was going to say something rude, something to point out how they didn't need <em>all<em> that food if it was just the two of them or how it would probably all taste like crap anyways. He wanted to be rude, but as Vatican set up the little table attached to Romano's chair, and the younger Italian forced himself to sit up despite exhaustion, the moment the plate landed in front of him Romano started eating.

The pasta really wasn't that bad, but it didn't even matter anymore. He ate and he drank the water Vatican handed to him, and then he ate more. Romano hadn't noticed it because he'd been so tired, but he was so hungry his stomach felt like a bag of hot, boiling acid waiting for food. As soon as he finished with the first plate Vatican was already setting a fish entree in front of him, Romano digging in without hesitation. The flesh was overcooked and the rice had been seasoned carelessly, but he didn't care about the texture of the greens and he devoured the bread-roll that came with it too.

He was still hungry after that, but Romano couldn't eat anymore. As soon as it looked like Vatican might present him with the third plate his constitution crumbled and Romano placed his elbows on the little table, his face in his hands, tears spilling shamelessly from his eyes. He didn't know what to feel when Vatican's hand came down on his shoulder, Romano was at a loss when that hand started rubbing back and forth giving him comfort.

"Go back to sleep."

"No..." He was exhausted again, Romano was so damned tired... "I see him when I sleep... He won't... He won't leave me alone..."

He didn't expect Vatican to place take his hand from his face, forcing eye-contact. He didn't know how he really felt about it when it happened, or when things stayed like that. He just looked at the older persona through his tears and watched Vatican find the words he was searching for in his mind. Probably some proverb or part of the gospels, some kind of Papal Bull from a bygone era...

"Then..." Vatican sounded so unsure. "Then tell me what happened."

* * *

><p><em>Had China decided?<em>

It was Chinese. It was very bad, very broken, very badly pronounced Chinese. China just couldn't stop laughing as he heard it, physically holding his jaw shut as he bit his lip and shut his eyes. Little tears were clinging to his lashes and he just couldn't stop laughing, a horrible snorting noise coming out of his nose in little bursts, just like a pig- which just made him laugh even more!

"I get it-!" He did, China really, honestly did. "I finally get it! No one understands!" Ah- no, he wanted to be laughing, not crying! China swiped his hand over his eyes several times, forcing the sobs to turn back into giggles, searching for the laughter and mentally threatening to ram his own hand down his throat to find them if they didn't come out! He wanted to laugh at all these crazy things; laugh, damn it! "France has been driving himself nuts, he's so worried about you! _But I get it now!_"

China clamped both hands over his mouth and stomped his foot on the grass, punishing it for not helping bring his laughter back! China didn't want to cry! He wanted the pain in his chest to go away and the choking hold on his throat to vanish! He didn't want his eyes to fill up with tears- he'd rather see Canada's guilty face staring at him in the night, he'd rather look up at the moon that none of them had been able to see from inside that hell house!

Their hotel looked so much like the mansion: China had already vowed to never come back to this place. He wouldn't let himself come back to Bern ever again, not if Switzerland begged him or even if the entire world threatened to toss China out of the UN! He'd ruin them all if they tried something stupid like that- he was never coming back here, aru!

"S-say it again..." Canada was completely silent, China just covered his face with his sleeves and tried to control the gross things his face was doing, all the wet and stick and yuck coming out of his lungs and his nose. He knew his cheeks were flushing up and his face was wet with the tears- sweat too, because he just couldn't find the laughter and crying made him feel hot. "S-say anything again, anything..." In Chinese, say anything again in Chinese!

Because he hadn't heard his language in so long- he spoke Korean with Korea, or English with Hong Kong, or something else with Vietnam because none of them really spoke his language that well. And Taiwan refused to speak with him in Mandarin or Cantonese- she just flat out refused. They were siblings and China had been through a lot, but she simply didn't like him and he, honestly, still didn't like having her too close to him. So she wouldn't speak to him in his language, and Japan barely knew it anymore so he was no use either.

He had a vacation home in almost every major city, but only Canada was standing in front of him now, and his badly spoken, poorly worded, sloppy pronunciation was the closest thing to home that China had come in... he didn't even want to think about it. How long had Italy been trapped in that mansion? China didn't want to think about how many years of his life- so few in the span of centuries, but so many for his human self- had been lost to that corner of hell... It wasn't fair, making him go through all of that without end, without respite- China didn't even know if he was thinking about himself or Italy anymore, it was just all too unfair to keep thinking about it.

* * *

><p>"...And then England came back into the library. He looked... shell-shocked, there was blood on his hands but he'd wiped some of it off already." Romano was so tired, but if he slept he'd see something terrible again, he'd watch it all happen through Veneziano's eyes again. He didn't want to do that, he couldn't handle doing that. "He led us back to the room where the others, everyone except Veneziano, was waiting, and then he had us explain everything."<p>

It had taken a long time, going through what the mansion was doing, and why they'd come from the future back to a past loop to kill monsters. Spain had talked for the better part of two hours, Romano had kept silent because he just couldn't handle it. They'd been standing in a loop where Veneziano had died- was that why his heart had hurt like that? Because _that_ Veneziano had died, not his? How could he even distinguish between the two? _His_ Veneziano, not someone _else's_ Veneziano. It felt and sounded so wrong...

"England agreed to send us back after that. We gave him the journal and there was this burnt-out version of the original glyph on the last page. He traced his finger over it and said some magic words, then the next thing I knew we were wrapped in light and noise." It was the same as when they'd been sent _back_ in time, the complete blurring of line and texture, warped colours and disturbed sensations. "We arrived back in the safe room, but..." He was so tired...

"But?" But no one had thought to tell Vatican anything, this was his first time hearing what the hell had happened to them. Romano didn't feel like he owed the Micro-nation anything, but at the same time he kinda did... it was just hard to figure out what it was exactly.

"But it wasn't safe anymore."

* * *

><p>"For years, years and years, you didn't get to use your other language. You're different from the rest of us, you made a promise to your people to always speak French, didn't you?" It hadn't just happened that way for Canada, two languages wasn't just the way things had worked out for him. China could only understand it to a point: when you conquered a people you took away their language, or at least you enforced your own to the point where it didn't matter what they spoke at home so long as they used the right words with you.<p>

Canada had done that too, forcing his dominant languages over whatever tongues had been there before. He'd had to, or been made to, or maybe he'd just watched his government do it instead, China wasn't sure, but French had been treated differently for some reason. France's influences had been more of a threat to England so the two had been forced to compromise and put up with one another for the sake of building a new nation.

"..._Kěyǐi._" Yes.

"Now you'll speak anything _but_ English?"

"_Rúguǒo wǒo néng._" If Canada could, he would. A lot of China's children had left him and gone to the younger nation in the last two hundred years or so, all for many different reasons. They hadn't always been treated well, but they hadn't always been treated poorly either. It was... nice... knowing that the nation that took them in had picked up some of the language as well. Canada clearly had no idea how to pronounce most of what he was saying, but he was speaking none the less.

So China, as a sign of thanks and respect, followed.

"_I have decided. It wasn't hard to choose."_ Looking up at the moon again for a moment, China folded his arms and then slowly crossed his ankles, sinking down into a seated position on the dry grass. _"Germany deserves to keep the treaty and I think Japan will accept the other list."_ Watching Canada where the youngster was still standing, it took a moment for the western nation to slowly settle down on the ground across from him, the oak standing between them and off to China's left.

"_Nothing for Romano?"_ That sounded like something else before China mentally fixed the emphasis Canada used, the ancient nation shrugging slightly.

"_He gets the nation." _Silence, and not because Canada couldn't find the vocabulary to fill it. The younger nation was clearly fighting with himself, not sure what he _should_ say versus what China was sure he _wanted_ to say. Cutting the young blond a break, China folded his hands in his sleeves in front of him and took the proverbial bull by the horns. "_You're mad at him just like America, aren't you? You brothers are quite alike."_ Canada tensed up noticeably, uncomfortable with having his temper recognized and then dragged out into the open like this. But Canada didn't fight it, the brothers felt the same way but they still behaved very differently.

"_I don't-"_

"_He attacked your pride. It made you angry..." _His comment quieted Canada down, but it wasn't meant to shut him up. The youth mulled over the issue... thinking, and then finally...

"_When Italy shot England..."_

* * *

><p>They'd found Arthur's body crushed under the massive table where they'd taken meals. Francis had been headless nearby, his sword in pieces on the floor next to Matthew's dead polar bear. Of the Canadian himself there had been no sign, but Gilbert's body was mangled and broken at the bottom of the stairs.<p>

"Spain lost his mind, I swear to God..." Francis and Gilbert had always been his closest friends, and they'd been butchered like animals when he wasn't even there to help them. The entire room had been torn apart, one of the monsters still lingering near the shattered beds. Antonio almost lost his arm trying to fight it until Lovino had dragged him out and down the hall, the two of them running for their lives. "We didn't get very far though, as soon as we were about to go down to the first floor China opened one of the bedroom doors and called us over. There was a lot of screaming, but we went in."

Inside, the first thing they saw was Ivan sobbing on his knees, his blood splattered over the wall and window where he'd been pounding his fists till they bled. His sword was broken and the massive power had lost the will to keep fighting, he'd just been crying, wailing his sisters' names. In the corner Matthew had been bent over his brother, cradling Alfred's head against his chest and begging him to hold on.

"I dunno what really happened, but they'd been trying to call someone on the outside before Russia broke down. Lu- Germany was standing there with two phones, China too, but they'd given up by the time we got in there. When I saw Feli he was just... he wasn't himself." Romano didn't catch or correct his brother's human name this time, he couldn't keep stopping and expect to keep talking.

Feliciano hadn't hugged Lovino, it had been the other way around. For once in their god-damned lives Romano had reached out first and drawn his sibling in close and tight against him, sensing before anyone else what was happening to his brother. When Alfred stopped breathing Matthew's screams joined Ivan's...

"We just left them like that; Canada, Russia, there was no use dragging them along, they wouldn't leave even when we tried and Matt- Can- _chigi..."_ Damn it, explaining things shouldn't be so confusing. "He took a swing at Spain when he tried moving America, he was almost wild."

"Canada has a very mild temperament..."

"Nobody's mild when their family gets wiped out." Buried in his seat, Romano closed his eyes a little and remembered his younger brother again. He remembered how Feliciano had stood in his arms like a statue, not understanding or responding, but then he'd slowly come out of it and slid into something more real and terrifying. North had clung to south so tightly Romano almost choked on it, but instead he'd just hugged back fiercely while Matthew screamed and Ivan went dark. At that point they'd all been too broken to handle that kind of immediate trauma.

He remembered his brother's voice, one of the last real things he'd heard him say. Simple, clean Italian, childlike, heartbroken: _"Ancora una volta, devo farlo di nuovo. Ancora una volta, e ancora, e ancora..."_ It was hard to get him to say anything except _'again'_ after that. By the very end, _ancora_ had lost all meaning.

China, Italy, Germany, Romano, and Spain. They regrouped with a shell-shocked Japan who had been separated in the chaos and decided to search for the clock room. There had to be a way to take more than just one person back with their memories. They were going to find the clock and then write each of their names in the journal so it would extend to all six of them. It was a bad plan, but it was all they had.

"What happened after that?" After that? Everything went fine until they lost Japan, who'd been injured when he caught up with them and quickly succumbed. China went postal after that died screaming about the next time.

"From that point on it was just cat and mouse... We had nowhere to hide anymore, we couldn't rest, we had hardly any food..." It'd just been the four of them, and Veneziano had been so heartbroken by losing everything that he'd pushed himself beyond the point of tears: he couldn't cry anymore for what he'd already mourned.

Mourned over and over again. Again, and again, _e ancora, e ancora, e ancora..._

"When it was just the four of us..." Romano wanted to go back to sleep, but he didn't want to dream again: he was almost sure of what it would be this time. His eyes drifted shut, he just couldn't keep them open. "We decided... not to go back, but... across..."

"Across?"

"Across time... Like when... Spain and I... before..." Before Spain died in that terrifying moment between looking for the room and realizing they'd gone the wrong way. Before Romano had to drag his brother's stunned form down through the last door to reach that damned machine- leaving Ludwig behind because there was nothing they could do for him anymore. "Go across... No more trying to save the new, fresh timelines... just going back... fix an older ones instead... There had to be a way to do that..."

"That could cause a paradox..."

"We were already in one..." He cracked his eyes open as far as they would go, barely able to see anything in the dark interior of the train-car. He could just barely make out Vatican sitting next to him, his long fingers folded around that silver cross, his white hair catching a few rays of moonlight as they came through the wide window to Romano's right.

"What happened to you?" It was almost the same question Vatican had asked over an hour ago, but this time the meaning of the _'you'_ was different. It wasn't the collective group he was asking about, the twelve personifications who'd been trapped inside that nightmare, it was Romano himself who was the subject. So he smiled.

"...We got to the clock room, Veneziano and I... and then we sat there and we sobbed like little girls." So embarrassing... But neither of them could keep it together at that point, they'd just sat there weeping while Romano held the pen and tried remembering how to write his own name on the first page.

Spain had died, as in he was actually _dead_, and Romano hadn't known what to do with that information. How could his old boss be... gone? It hadn't make any sense, and with his brother trying to cope with losing Germany _again..._ well, they simply weren't good for each other at that point. Tears from one brother caused sobbing in the other, and that sobbing led to screaming, and the screaming just got worse as they fed off one another in desperation. They'd hugged each other, hit each other, kissed and kicked and scratched and held... It was terrible to remember being like that, too painful and embarrassing...

"And... the last thing?" Vatican wasn't stupid. Romano might accuse him of it sometimes, or most of the time even, but he really wasn't that dumb. He knew how this story was going to end, and hearing him ask for the details anyways made Romano crack another tiny, exhausted smile.

"The last thing I remember..." Was some blond who reminded him of Germany. Some blond who grabbed Romano by the hair and ripped his head back so he could see that terrible, grinning face. The knife felt like a hot sting as it slashed his throat open from ear to ear, Romano's head filling with all kinds of noises he couldn't remember anymore. But he'd seen Veneziano again before it ended, that was who the foreign hands shoved him to after the damage was done. Neither of them had really noticed it happen, just one moment they were kneeling in front of each other sobbing their hearts out, and the next Romano was giving up more blood than he had ever imagined owning. "My last memory... is being in my brother's arms..."

No more questions after that, just silence. At this time of night there was no one up and walking around- the train had been quiet all day anyways, but now it was pure silence. Romano couldn't even hear the sound of the wheels chugging along the rails, no latent vibrations from the massive machines driving the train along. Technology had advanced so far in such a short time, the world was hardly something he ought to be able to recognize anymore. So dark, so quiet, so far away from that place where the Devil had stepped out of Hell and built himself a little mansion made of bones...

Ending his battle with sleep, Romano knew what Veneziano would have to show him next. His brother liked showing things in order, sometimes...

_'Ci risiamo, fratellino...'_ _Ancora_, little brother.

_Again_..._?_

* * *

><p><strong>Originally the 13th chapter was going to be everyone packing up and heading to Rome to try and find Romano. Compared to everyone else though his reaction to them was going to be along the lines of "Why're you bastards all crowding into my house?" instead of wicked angst or screaming. His personality would have undergone a <em>slight<em> change to make him a bit nicer too: a little less crass and with a better mind for business and art. It basically would have been a merged personality between himself and Veneziano but with Romano becoming the dominant persona. It was bitter-sweet and would have had lots of pretty imagery in it, and then the story would have ended.**

**Instead I am happy to announce that chapters 14 and 15 are deliciously bloody, 16 is politically charged, and we'll see how well I can handle 17. I hope I won't disappoint!**

**Probably gonna remove chapters 2 and 3 at some point because they don't do a whole hell of a lot for this story =3**

**Chinese: **"Have you decided?", "Yes", "If I can."

**Italian: **"Again, I have to do it again. Again, and again, and again...", "Lets do this, Little Brother.", "Again."

**Friday! See you then!**


	13. When Italy Shot England

**End of the Dream, Soldiers, Get Out Alive, Lost in Paradise, Zun Da Da, Rest Calm. **

****Warning! Graphic violence ahead! Remember how HetaOni's a story all about people DYING MISERABLY? Well I tried my hand at horror here so _you've been warned._****

**I also figured I should finally honour the M rating since, y'know, this was M when I posted it but then the M content all got shuffled down here... ****Italy was a bugger in this and next chapter, but I guess he had every right to be. **

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

When Italy Shot England

"I _hate_ Venice..."

"He kept an apartment near Saint Mark's Cathedral, correct?"

"Flooded city... smells like _shit_..."

"Romano?"

"Yes! _Chigi!_ Saint Mark's!"

* * *

><p>"<em>It was difficult for you, wasn't it? Watching what happened."<em> China watched the younger nation's face in the night. The moon offered enough light to see by and there were a few rays reaching their position from the garden lamps set up along the path behind them. They hadn't moved from their spot near the oak tree.

"_He was targeting my family."_ Despite the uncomfortable look on the Canadian's face, Matthew Williams hadn't switched from his bad Chinese to English yet, and he probably wouldn't._ "He manipulated them through me."_

"_Our heads have been stuffed full of all kinds of things since we came back. Tell me what you remember, I want to know if I still understand everything."_ His request troubled Canada, but China didn't take the words back. He needed closure, just a little bit more clarity...

"_...I remember..."_ So did China, but this was Canada's moment.

* * *

><p>"<em>So we're all in agreement, then?" The air was still thick with magic as England spoke to them all, Canada keeping his eyes shut and hands over his ears for a moment even after the ringing bells and crashing symbols of the time-travel spell had faded. He wasn't connected to the occult like England and the British nations were: being considered a 'son' of the UK hadn't granted Canada that kind of insight, but he knew powerful magic when he felt it. Kumajiro was hiding behind his legs, head down and paws over his ears too, waiting for the residual effects of the spell to fade.<em>

_They were up on the third floor inside the locked music room, everyone together now after the horrors that had befallen Italy down on the level below them. A make-shift funeral followed by reading the pages of that strange bible he'd been carrying around with him, and then seeing Spain and Romano- from the **future?** It was a little far-fetched as far as Canada was concerned..._

_And yet, so was watching a nation die right before their eyes. That sort of thing simply didn't happen, it wasn't possible. Sure, their bodies could be hurt and they could "die" for a few hours, or a few days. It didn't do them any good though since they'd just come back to life after the trauma had been dealt with and their corpses were left alone. Burning them wouldn't change anything either: they'd just come back from the ashes, form out of the wind, step out of the darkness and join the masses in any of their cities..._

_But downstairs, in a room filled with flowers and blood, there was only a young dead Italian. Did that mean the idea of Italy had perished with him, or... or what __**did**__ it mean?_

_Spain and Romano hadn't been able to answer that question and now they were off back to their own time loop, doing their part to fight and survive and break free of this place._

"_There's no backing out of this." Looking around at everyone's stern expressions, Canada had a few reservations of his own but he noticed the same sense of unease in his brother's face. America wasn't completely convinced that this was such a good idea, but the thought of being rescued by Italy- or of leaving the Italian **behind,** was too much for him. What kind of soldier would leave a man behind? What kind of Hero wouldn't rescue every victim?_

_Germany was all for it, France seemed cautious but hurting from what had happened to the other nation- he wanted to fix it. England was the one **pushing** for it, so his entire family was accounted for. Then there was Russia, China, Japan, and Prussia. Everyone had their own thoughts, their own opinion about how to handle things best, but it seemed like they really were all in agreement: _

_Go back in time, and this time get everyone out alive._

"_Alright. Everyone gather close." England opened Italy's journal, not the one Spain and Romano had taken forward with them through time, but the one **their** Italy had left behind after meeting his end. Canada found himself squeezed between France and America, Kumanji up in his arms now that the spell from before had completely dissipated. England was flipping quickly through the pages, then looked up at the eight of them. _

"_Does anyone have a pen-?"_

"_**-et me in!**"_

_W-what was that?_

_They all froze, England included, and Canada didn't know who to look at as a loud banging noise came from the door, following the voice. That accent, it couldn't be-_

_**"Fatemi entrare! Open the door!**" And another fierce knock, metal striking the thick wood that muffled the Italian words. Impossible._

_Prussia suddenly jumped, without permission, and rushed to open the lock. Japan was the one who tossed him the key, no one arguing- but they weren't at ease either. France's sword was out and China had a hand on his sword hilt before Prussia finished fitting the key in the door, the albino checking the rest of them before a third round of knocking told him to hurry up._

_Keys in this place didn't turn easily, Prussia really had to force the lock to do what he said; the gears grinding together before the bolt slid and the handle twisted. Whoever was standing on the other side didn't force the door open, but as soon as there was space-_

_No, no, this wasn't possible. Italy was dead, he was downstairs: he been cleaned up and laid in a small sanctuary, not breathing and not in any more pain. And this wasn't Italy anyways! Canada looked at him and nothing-** nothing, **about him was the same. It couldn't be the same person!_

_The auburn hair was the right colour, but it looked as if it had grown longer somehow, not by a lot, but it was so matted and filthy that the colour had lost all life. The bangs fell across a brow that bore worry lines and faded scars, the old wounds done in pink. Eyebrows drawn down over hard, scowling, angry brown eyes. The sort of eyes that flickered about and criticized **everything** they landed on, the sort that held contempt as they jumped from face to face- Canada's included, counting. England was the last one to receive that stare and Canada felt insulted for how forcefully he'd been appraised, a shiver of contempt effecting the others as well. _

_Italy- Italy? His jaw seemed locked in place, his teeth grinding audibly as he couldn't seem to hold his head up straight, his neck kinked to the side over the wilted, bloody collar of his black shirt._

"_I know what you're planning, England."_

_And the blood, the blood, the blood..._

"_Then... Then you know not to stop me." Italy's uniform was drenched- literally__** drenched**__ in blood,_ _he was even leaving footprints behind him on the floor. Something- some__**one?**__ had bled out over his front, his lapels stiff with the dried substance while the crimson had run down his back too. His pants were soiled with crimson and it, horribly, looked fresh. Canada could __**smell **__it and Kumako squirmed_ _uncomfortably in his arms, whining about the stink._

"_Do I?" And before any of them could comprehend what was happening, the blood-soaked man was in the middle of the room with a pistol aimed straight at England. Japan gasped something and France swore but they didn't move, the temperature in the room seemed to jump up with the weapon's appearance, the Italian standing with his right arm extended, elbow straight and shoulders set._

_But that **gun**, it-_

"_W-where the bloody hell did you-?" Canada took his eyes off England and focused on America, who was just as shocked as the rest of them- both that Italy was **carrying** a gun, and that it was **America's** gun. His brother's hand flew to his hip and Canada saw the revolver resting in its holster- but Italy saw it too and his thumb clicked the hammer down, watching America from the corner of his eye. The gun was ready to fire and his finger was resting heavily over the trigger, a very serious warning not to do anything rash. Canada's brother lowered his hand again, France backing down and dropping his sword as well before the Italian looked back at England._

"_You sent them back? I was waiting." Did- did he mean Spain and Romano? What was going on? Why was Italy **bleeding? **_

_Canada hadn't noticed it right away, but now that there was silence he could hear it: the heavy sound of blood dripping to the floor. The left arm of Italy's uniform had been sliced open from the elbow and the entire thing was wet with blood, crimson coating the Italian's discoloured fingers while the digits twitched ghoulishly. It was a fresh wound, and the simple fact that he couldn't keep his hand still was indicative of how much pain he was in. That Italy either seemed to be ignoring the pain or just couldn't care less about it was frightening._

"_Put it on the floor and kick it over to me." The journal in England's hands- Italy had a similar one in a case hanging at his belt- one even bloodier and beaten up than the one England was still clutching. Canada saw now how England had his hand pressed down over the crisp, clean pages of their copy, standing defensively over the book. _

"_If **any** of you move, I'll shoot him." And somehow that was enough to keep everyone frozen, watching. Canada couldn't move after hearing a threat like that: it wasn't England himself he was worried about, it was how **Italy** was taking someone **hostage**, and that just wasn't right..._

"_So..." Russia's voice, coming from Canada's right. The other northern country seemed at ease for some reason, but Canada noticed how he didn't move either. He stole a glance at Russia and saw that childlike smile on his face, the one that scared so many smaller nations. "Which loop are you from then, Italy?" Because they'd just been discussing that, hadn't they? Time travel, alternate realities, repeating loops. They'd sent Spain and Romano back to wherever they'd come from and now all of a sudden here was Italy, who was supposed to be **dead**, but he was standing right in front of them all._

"_The last one." England's voice-_

_**Bang!**_

_England's fingers had started moving over the page in front of him, that was why Italy squeezed the trigger. The sound of the .44 calibre round was deafening in such a small room and England's screams in the wake of it were terrifying- because they were **screams**. He dropped the journal and collapsed with his hand clutching his bleeding shoulder, the red running down England's arm like ribbons and quickly pooling on the floor. His reaction was horrifying and Canada actually dropped Kumajiro trying to comprehend what he was seeing- hands up over his ears like he could block out the sound if he pressed hard enough._

"_I'm not going to let you do it, England." But over the screaming and through his hands, Canada still heard Italy's voice. "It did a lot of good, but this time I need you to stay right here."_

_They'd all been shot before, every single one of them knew what it felt like- Canada himself had been riddled with bullets at least twice during the First World War, Japan had taken America's fire-bombing and so many shots had been fired in Berlin that Germany and Prussia would never forget the pain. America and France had both shot themselves during their Civil Wars, China had done the same in the process of his revolution, and Russia had taken more than a few shots to the chest or head during the Cold War. They'd all been shot before, they were nations, it didn't effect them the same way it would a human._

_So hearing England scream was terrifying, because as the Englishman howled and clutched at his green uniform Canada could see it in his eyes that something was **wrong**. England had been shot before, it should not **hurt him** like that..._

"_Push me and he's next." Italy was fast, he'd always been fast, but the way he swung that gun around at Canada was almost too quick for the nation to see. Canada had only found himself staring down the barrel of an American gun once in their combined history, but this was no 16th century rifle, and in this place Canada was mortal and suddenly very alone. "I've seen it play this game enough times: I know the rules, and you're going to follow them."_

_Italy wasn't looking at him, he was looking at America- **America** was the one Italy was threatening, not Canada. If America moved, Canada would suffer for it, that was the punishment. France seemed too stunned to do anything, China kneeling next to England where the former Empire still couldn't manage the pain yet- gasping and swearing violently as Prussia also tried to help._

"_What game?"_

"_Francis, bring me the journal." Who? Canada watched the black eye of the gun list slightly to one side, Italy's face strained as he broke eye-contact with America and started watching his target instead. What game was Italy talking about, and who was-? **"Francois Bonnefoy, portami il diario-"**_

"_**You dirty wanker, Italy! Turn that gun on someone who's actually pissed you off before- leave him the hell alone!"**__ Canada expected to be shot. As soon as England worked his way around the pain and screamed at Italy, he expected the gun to explode and for some kind of terrible pain to punch through his body. But it didn't. Italy just pulled the hammer down with his thumb, the same intimidating gesture, the same warning, and he moved back from Italian to English so they could all understand_.

"_The journal, Francis. I want it."_

_France moved. It was a rough, jerking motion and Canada's French father wouldn't look at him, he was staring wide-eyed at Italy. The first step was like a test, a lurch that accomplished nothing but didn't earn France the same threatening stare as America. Since when did France answer to a name like that? Francois? Who the hell was Bonnefoy?_

_"What game?" Canada repeated, his voice just as quiet as before but this time Italy made eye-contact with him and proved that he'd heard Canada speak. He didn't answer though, even when America loudly demanded to know the same thing: what game, and what rules, and who the hell did Italy think he was to treat them like this?_

_"The journal-"_

_**"Stop saying that!"**_

_Italy didn't answer and France knelt quickly to scoop up the journal, Canada watching something pass between England and France before the francophone was up again. When Canada looked back at the gun he saw how it was leaning even further from before, the sight wavering unsteadily as if Italy was struggling to hold the gun up. It shouldn't have been hard for him to keep it steady, it wasn't shaking because of nerves- Canada knew what that looked like, he knew what Italy looked like when he was scared and this wasn't it. _

_The heavy drip of blood became audible again, but Canada couldn't take his eyes off the weapon long enough to gauge how willing the others were to risk his safety to attack Italy's obvious weak point. The gun was listing so far; if Canada moved as **fast** as he could and America-_

"_Here." France was standing next to Italy, holding the thick body of the journal out in one hand. Italy didn't even look at him._

_"Put it on the floor." The look France sent the bleeding Italian could have chilled water. Instead of reverently placing the leather-bound book at Italy's feet, he dropped it like a piece of trash._

"_Grazie-"_

_**Bang! Bang- Bang!**_

_Canada felt a terrible shock run through him as the gun went off, but there was no pain. Russia was suddenly in front of him, America too, but no-one was bleeding. Instead it was the journal that took the abuse: the leather-bound log jumped across the floor as three bullets tore through its pages and shredded the spine. And Italy kept squeezing the trigger, he would have kept shooting if he hadn't run out of bullets first._

"Perdonami, Padre, perché ho peccato-_"_ _Wait, why was **Russia** in front of him? America Canada understood, but why had the other nation jumped in the way of the gun? That didn't- "ma non riesco a salvarli tutti - **e non posso continuare a provare-!**"_

_Italy dropped the gun as soon as it started clicking without firing, Canada stepping out from around the protective block to see what the hell was going on. He watched as the Italian moved with single-minded purpose, reaching into one of his uniform's bloody pockets and forming a tight fist around whatever it was he pulled out. He was glaring at the journal like it was some sort of vermin, and in two steps Italy crossed the floor and dropped onto one knee, his good hand opening again as he slammed his palm down over the book's shredded cover._

_Hot white light erupted from the journal, an unnatural wind kicking up around the Italian before the magic was spent as suddenly as it had flared up. Scorch marks had blackened the floor under him and Italy was panting heavily. But that, for some reason, seemed to be it._

_"F... Finally..." Italy closed his eyes and let his head drop, Canada wrestling with the anger bubbling up inside of him as the other nation reached around with his good hand and wrapped it around his elbow with a hiss. "Thank you, Arthur..."_

_The sound of several swords leaving their sheaths and scabbards. Kumajimo started growling at Canada's feet as America drew his pistol again- ready to use it this time. The hostage-taker was now kneeling in a circle of nine hostile nations..._

"_Ha... you're all so eager..." France's sword touched the side of Italy's throat, Canada watching as the nation closest to the former gunman fixed a toxic glare to the back of the Italian's head._

"_Don't hurt him!" Germany's voice, but it was too loud to read real emotion into it. Fear? Anger? Frustration? Canada didn't actually care, but he watched as Germany stumbled out of the circle and into the middle, France's terribly dark eyes focusing on the other blond for a moment in disgust. "He had a reason for it! Italy! Tell them what's going on!"_

_"Do **you** know?" Canada asked firmly, making sure he was actually heard this time as Germany wheeled around and mistakenly looked at America first. That just irritated him a bit more: "You saw what he just did and now we're stuck here without the journal! Why are you defending him, Germany?"_

"_You ran off for a while after we found the book-" America's voice, picking up on the harsh suspicion Canada felt welling up alongside the rage."Where the hell did you go?" _

"_I..." Stumped, that's what Germany was. He looked completely stumped as he stood there dumbly next to France. France had placed the sword on the side of Italy's throat so it was between the flesh and Germany: there was no safe way for the former Axis nation to try getting too close to Italy or disarming France. Germany knew this, and he was watching Russia spin his pipe-sword ominously next to America._

"_He was with me." There was a sound, far away and weak, of Italy trying to laugh. "I'm the... third one he's seen today..." Third one? How many Italys were running around in this place?_

"_I... I thought it was a ghost... His ghost..."_

"_Big brother France is mad, si?" It sounded like Italy couldn't breathe right, he was still panting, blood still pooling slowly on the floor where his mangled wrist was bent awkwardly against the pale white wood. Canada watched France's attention flicker between Italy and Germany, then he looked down at the nation kneeling in front of him._

_"Oui. You had better explain yourself."_

"_No." No? Where had Italy found all this courage? Why was he suddenly so bold? "I... I can't reach it but the journal I have- take it. I've already ripped the magic out of it, it's useless now, but it has everything inside..." There was tension and silence, but finally France removed his sword from Italy's neck and allowed Germany to visibly relax. Canada watched his father kneel down behind the Italian and France jerked the notebook free from the case where it had been resting at Italy's hip. "Read it when you get out, there's no time now." Get out? And how the hell were they going to-? "Can I stand?"_

_France gave a disdainful look at the Italian and walked away from him, his sword returning to his side as he quickly flipped the notebook open. Prussia immediately stepped up and met his friend, the two of them putting their heads together quickly and looking down at what was inside. Canada could have joined them, but he just focused on the red-head instead. Germany had knelt down and was trying to get a look at Italy's arm, but the other nation was being difficult with him._

"_You don't want to see, Ludwig. You really don't. Help me to the wall? I want to lean on something." Because despite his request, it didn't seem like Italy even **could** stand on his own. It would be dangerous to get between Germany and Italy right now, but Canada stepped forward and found Russia next to him as he approached the southern nation._

_Italy saw him coming and headed him off, one honey brown eye glancing up at Canada and Russia from behind the fall of his red bangs._

"_The game-" Germany took Italy by his uninjured arm and helped him climb to his feet, the red-head wincing painfully and grunting as he forced his legs to support him again. Japan had appeared and was hovering close behind, guiding Germany back until they reached the wall a few feet away from England. Canada followed them, Russia shadowing him closely and keeping the pressure on the Italian. America was kneeling by England and cast a terrible look over in Italy's direction, but none of the Axis powers seemed to notice. As soon as Italy was sitting down with his back against the white wall, he continued speaking: "The game... is where everyone is willing to die... but none of you will sacrifice anyone else." _

_Canada just wanted to punch him for daring to say that with a smile. _

"_It's true, Matthew, I just proved it." What- How the hell did he-? "We've all been playing along since we got here. That's how a perfect loop like this one still managed to fail in the end... But I broke the rules this time, I took the monster's place... he's so mad..." He?_

"_Here, drink a little..." Japan spoke the words softly, holding out one of the beer bottles they'd collected from that strange toilet downstairs. This one had been emptied already and just had water inside, so whether or not he wanted to drink Italy was made to swallow a few mouthfuls. "Who's mad, Italy?"_

_"Don't call me that-"_

_"Answer the fucking question!" America's voice. Canada almost said it himself until his twin spun around and bellowed the words. "No more of your damn secrets! Who's mad, Italy!-?" Italy just shut his eyes tightly as he was screamed at, but instead of looking scared or upset, the Italian just looked... angry?_

_"I couldn't find Italy on a **map**..." He said bitterly, his voice lower and darker than Canada could remember hearing it- even during the Second World War, right at the very end, it hadn't been quite so- "Do something productive with that anger, Alfred: come cut out this key._"

"_Key?" China repeated the word before America could react to the name Italy called him- Canada didn't know what to make of it either. That made four strange names now and Canada wasn't sure what it meant. That name, no one ever called him that unless he was at home, and even then..._

"_If you want to help me, Ludwig, then go stand someplace where you can't see me." Four strange names, but Canada noticed now that Italy hadn't actually **looked** at Germany once yet. He was keeping his eyes closed but he also refused to so much as speak in the German's direction. When Germany tried to ask why- "Because I know what you can handle, and you can't handle **this.**"_

_As he spoke Italy's hand moved to undo the button holding his shredded sleeve together over his wrist. It looked painful to accomplish and Canada only noticed now that Italy's working palm had been burnt by the magic he'd used on the journal- Japan saw it too, but before he could lean over and do it for him, Italy snapped the button off and flung the black and blue fabric away from his arm._

_Canada almost gagged. From the elbow down Italy's left arm was engorged with blood and swollen to twice, almost three times its normal size. The skin was so red it had begun going blue and violet, a furious red line travelling down the underside and pulsing in time with the Italian's heartbeat. It looked like it had been partially sealed, but the white and red leaking from the wound told them all that there was no healing going on in the tormented limb._

"_What __**happened?**__" Germany's voice cracked as he begged the question, but Italy just kept his eyes closed and turned his head a little further away from his best friend._

"_It was necessary-"_

_"__**How**__ was this nece-"_

"_Germany please," Japan broke in, holding a hand up to stop what looked like a fight brewing between the two nations. "Italy, what key? You can't have..."_

"_Please don't call me that." Italy repeated, his burnt hand holding his infected arm again, his fingers remaining high above the inflamed skin. But he did answer Japan's question: "I put it in, but I can't take it out. Someone here has to have the stomach for it- France and Prussia both have knives." _

"_Key to where?" Japan's voice was so quiet, Canada almost couldn't hear him, but then Italy finally opened his eyes and looked at his friend. He smiled again:_

"_To freedom." He had the front door key. Wherever this Italy was from, he'd come to them with the front door key... But why had he gone to this kind of extreme? Couldn't he have just carried it in his hand? "This was the only way, so please, Kiku, don't make Ludwig sit next to me for this."_

"_I'll do it." China stood up and walked towards the small cluster, France and Prussia hovering over England with the journal, watching the conversation like Canada and Russia both were. He'd expected his brother to take Italy's earlier bait, but America was still down on one knee next to the injured Brit, anger in his eyes as he watched Japan give in and reach to take Germany away. More strange names..._

"_No-" The blond protested, but Italy spoke up in a different voice than the one he'd been using. Canada saw him flinch sharply before he forced the grimace on his face into a pitifully false smile, the Italian's voice lightening unnatural until it... sounded exactly the way it always did..._

_"Veh, Germany...!" He didn't look at Germany, but he dropped the strange name he'd been using and turned his face towards his friend. Canada heard Germany give an uncomfortable grunt, Japan staring at the transformation that had overtaken their wounded comrade. It was unnerving to see how easily he covered everything up..."I think... I think this story will have a happy ending, Germany."_

_How could he say something like that? It was the words and the tone: he sounded so care-free and Canada felt a shiver run down his spine. __**This**__ was the man who'd held him at gun point a minute ago? This was the person who was waiting for China to finish cleaning off the knife in his hands so he could cut into the Italian's body? It didn't make sense, it was disturbing and it was wrong and even Russia seemed affected by the uneasy tension polluting the air._

"_Italy..."_

"_But you have to do what I say right now, okay? Veh, I know you want to yell at me-" On the contrary, __Germany's face looked so hopeless that yelling was clearly the last thing on his mind. "-but once we get out of here I'll run as many laps as you want to make up for it! I won't let you down, Captain!" Acting, he was acting. How long had he been doing that for? How much of it had __**always**__ been an act if Italy could call up his usual manners despite the horrific circumstances? He even added a salute with __his burnt hand, his charade numbing Germany enough that Japan was able to uneasily lead the other nation across the room and down into one of the corners._

_As soon as Germany was out of sight, Italy's face fell back into the stern grimace from before._

"_Veh~ the knife's clean enough, China, we don't have much time."_

"_Stop acting so calm, aru. You're supposed to be a coward." So it wasn't just Canada who was disturbed. Italy seemed to think about this for a moment, then he shifted and reached with his better hand for something tucked into his blood-soaked tunic._

"_Yao," __**another**__ name! "Take these." Italy pulled two foot-long tubes from his tunic, both of them capped and sealed as he held them out to the spluttering China._

"_What did you-? No! I'm only going through with this plan because I want out of here, I'm not carrying your shit, aru!" China wasn't one to swear, but Italy didn't seem surprised by the violent rejection._

"_Even if it tells you why I know your human name?"_

"_...That doesn't mean I'll believe you!" But he took them anyways, a haunted look staining his ancient face._

"_So we cut the key out of you, then what, Italy?" Russia asked the question as Canada watched China try and find a place to store the two canisters on his person. Prussia was standing again and stepped over to the spot where Japan had been kneeling before, a long strip of cloth in his hands as he crouched down. Italy didn't ignore Prussia, but he focused on Russia's question first._

"_Then we run from here to the front door, open it, and escape." He said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "The creature can't follow us beyond the edge of the property. Do you remember what that looks like?"_

_"The row of pillars at the turn in the road, da?" The Italian nodded. "That's quite the run."_

_If Italy had a reply, he kept it to himself as he looked at Prussia again and obediently opened his mouth. They were all soldiers, Canada didn't question the East German's methods as he tucked the black cloth into the Italian's mouth and stretched it around behind his head, knotting the gag tightly. It was thick enough that Italy couldn't close his mouth around it, he couldn't gnash his teeth or bite his tongue this way, and he obediently let himself be laid down flat on the floor. _

"_One of you get over here." France answered Prussia's summons, Canada turning to face Russia with a stern whisper: something was going to go wrong._

"_Well, there isn't much that __**can**__ go wrong, Canada. Could you elaborate?" The Canadian clenched his jaw, speaking tightly through his teeth._

"_Please don't patronize me." Russia smiled, it was a cruel thing to do and it didn't help his temper at all. _

_Chancing a look back at the others, France was braced with both hands pinning Italy's knees down, Prussia kneeling on his right shoulder, one hand on his elbow and the other pressing the Italian's head down with his face turned away from his exposed arm. China was mimicking him with one foot on Italy's left shoulder, his hand down and pressing the Italian's wrist to the floor- it caused a weak cry to fight against the gag, but Italy remained still. Canada couldn't see his face, and he didn't want to move to see if Italy's eyes were open or not._

"_This Italy's plan is simple, straight-forward, and difficult to get wrong." Unless China's knife nicked a major artery on his way in... or if the key wasn't there at all- why was he thinking like that? "I like it." _

"_You like that they're doing this to him?" America was finally pulled away from England's side, Canada watching as his brother relieved China of his hold on Italy's shoulder: he needed both hands for this. _

_Prussia whispered unnecessary advice to the ancient nation: cut deep, cut fast._

_"I like that he's no longer pointing a gun at you..." Surprised, Canada looked up at Russia and noticed just how close to him the other nation was still standing, even if he wasn't looking at him. His shock distracted him from the scene in front of them- but Italy's howl shattered that._

"_Hold him!" The knife's edge was dripping crimson and a flow of red was pooling on the floor, China's voice stern before he raked the blade further down along the same path he'd cut the first time. Italy's entire body reacted to the invasion, France shifting all of his weight over the Italian's legs as Prussia lowered his head and started stumbling over English and German trying to calm the man under him. America was just watching China, the knife clattering to the floor as the red nation plunged his fingers into the mangled flesh._

_The **sounds** Italy was making- panting, groaning, his screams were muffled but they were still screams. China's knee pinned Italy's blood-starved hand to the floor as his fingers probed and split the muscle, crimson washing up over his knuckles as his face was locked with simple, brutal determination. There was so much blood, China couldn't afford to go slowly and methodically through the limb._

"_Hurry up-"_

"_Found it!" He almost sounded surprised, announcing the discovery as his searching stopped and he looked away from the open wound, his fingers telling him what his eyes couldn't through the red river. But China's expression quickly darkened, and whatever encouraging feelings had welled up quickly vanished: China froze with his hand submerged in Italy's butchered limb. Shock. No, shock was not a good thing._

_"No, no, **no**..." No was not a good word, China!_

"_He's losing a lot of blood..." Canada didn't even know he'd spoken until Russia shifted next to him, hands delving inside his long grey jacket curiously. "Bandages, or a tourniquet..." _

_"Da. It would be bad if he died again." Canada immediately started checking his own pockets, pulling out shreds of gauze and the remains of a small personal first-aid kit. Most of the pieces were useless but he pulled the little plastic bag open and worked the tenser bandage out- it was **something. **Russia fingered the edge of his white scarf thoughtfully, but they were both distracted again by China's voice._

"_I'm sorry, Italy, I'm so-"_

"_**China!**" America's voice and China shut his eyes at the scream, one hand bracing Italy's arm just outside the gushing wound while his other was still lost in red. China braced himself and then-_

_Pushed!-?_

_There was a wet crack and Italy made a terrible sound- worse than England's screams, bad enough that England himself was pale and staring in horror at what was going on next to him._

"_WHAT DID YOU DO!" Prussia bellowed, Italy's strength showing itself as he nearly **lifted** Prussia and France off of him before America shoved his shoulders down with both hands, pinning him harshly. After that the Italian stopped moving all together._

_"It fused!" China's voice was frantic, his eyes shut as he tore his hand free of the gory mess he'd made and whipped something away from him. Canada wanted to duck out of the way, but instead he just watched the bloody mass strike the floor with a slick sound at his feet, an iron key slowly taking shape in the pool of vibrant red. It was a skeleton key like all the others they'd found, the only difference here was the larger-than-normal head resembling a clock-face, and the pink and white fibres bristling along one side of it. _

_Bone. **Living** bone..._

"_Italy? Italy!"_

"_Is he breathing?"_

"I- I can't tell...!"

_Canada wanted to run away, he wanted to rush into the corner with Germany and Japan and huddle there with his head between his knees, Kumajimi in his arms. He wanted to run away, but instead he rushed forward, the bandage unravelling between his hands as he quickly pushed China aside- the other nation had stopped doing anything useful and was pressing his palms over the bleeding wound without doing anything to really control it. Canada made short work of the tourniquet at Italy's shoulder, Russia ready with a needle and thread as he folded the limp, crushed flesh together and let the steel instrument do its worst. _

_They could see the bones. Not the white of them or the holes China had torn in the structure, but they could still see the bones as Canada kept from tying off the tourniquet completely: if he did that, the arm would be a lost cause if they lingered here for too long. He just wanted to slow the blood flow and make it easier for Russia to tie off the neat but aggressive stitches before reaching for bandages- there were so few to be had..._

"_The flag- France tear it up!" France was doing nothing but staring. He came out of it just enough to remove Italy's tattered flag from his belt where it was wrapped up around its post. Russia grabbed the pieces as soon as France was finished with them, saying nothing as China quickly offered up what few linen strips he had once the flag bits ran out._

_He couldn't believe himself- how was he so worried about this person? Why was he suddenly trying so hard? Canada just wanted to be mad at the limp Italian he was suddenly intent on keeping alive, but it wasn't working. _

"_Kumajiki!" A wave of green light surrounded the polar bear cub, Kumajiro whining at the mistake as he refused to come too close to Italy's spilt blood. The green wavered through the air like the northern lights, shimmering over the red puddle and focusing around Italy's mangled arm. He was still bleeding through the wraps, but it slowed down dramatically with the bear's magic._

"_Shit... shit... shit..." China left them and hurried off to where Japan and Germany were still kneeling with their heads down together. Canada gestured sharply for Prussia to follow them and help Germany, quickly taking Prussia's place at Italy's right and tearing away the gag. He was slack-jawed and deathly pale, hardly any air feathering past his thin, grey lips. Canada didn't look at America, but he felt his brother grip his shoulder tightly for a moment before the Super Power half-stood, half-crawled back over to England. France stayed where he was, but he crawled away from Italy's legs and knelt next to Canada as he gave the Italian a rough shake._

"_Italy! Wake up!" Sleeping after losing so much blood would be dangerous. He could sleep, but not until they gave him enough of those energy-restoring rice-balls and the potent beer this place produced. They had to get something good into his system before he fell from shock into something worse. "Look at me! Wake up!"_

"_Canada-" He shook off France's touch, flustered as the Italian failed to respond._

"_Russia, make me some ice!" The blunt command earned him a sharp look from the Russian, but the taller nation complied, pausing in his wrapping as he placed one hand down on the floor next to the spreading blood. With a gentle murmur behind his scarf, blue light collected under his palm and he lifted his hand up to sculpt a jagged icicle. Russia snapped it off and handed it to Canada, who smashed the top into tiny pieces in his hand, force-feeding several shards into Italy's mouth. He ran the thick stub left behind over the Italian's forehead and neck, cutting through the sweat and causing him to stir unwillingly._

_Italy's bright eyes were dark, hazy from unspeakable pain- there were red marks around his mouth from the gag, his throat closing awkwardly around the ice as it melted and slipped into his stomach. He didn't speak, he hardly seemed to know where he was, but Canada watched him try and weakly move his good arm- his better one anyways. _

_Italy started pulling at one of the pockets in his blue uniform and Canada brushed his fingers away. He reached for the thick black button himself and kept from flinching as the dry blood flaked off on his hands. Reaching inside he found... paper? It was a thick bundle sealed shut with a piece of tape, but Canada was careful as he pulled it out and held the folded pages in his hand. Written on the front in red ink was a simple address: **Fratello.**_

"_Romano?" Looking down at the Italian again, Italy's brown eyes seemed to lighten by the smallest measure, his heavy breaths starting to calm as he slowly, painfully, pulled one corner of his mouth up in a smile. It almost wasn't there, but Canada could see it... And this time he didn't feel the urge to strike the other man for it._

_For Romano. Canada could handle that..._

* * *

><p>"That's how I remember it too..." Yao's voice was calm in the quiet night, Matthew looking down at his lap where Kumajiro had found him while the two nations talked. The polar bear was snuggled up and content with his head resting on Canada's thigh. He stroked the thick, coarse fur slowly, weaving his fingers through the pure white fleece.<p>

Alfred was mad because he'd been manipulated by that gun Italy had swung around and fired, but at least he'd been important enough _to_ manipulate. Canada had been reduced to a pawn, a prize, a goal- something to keep from happening. He was mad at Italy for what had happened, for how _humiliated_ he'd been in that moment when suddenly two world powers had stepped in front of him. No one had jumped in front of England- did Canada, when he was noticed, just scream vulnerability or something?

And then to _help_ him afterwards...

And then to have him _die_ after all of that...

It was frustrating to be objectified like that, but it was worse to have the offender be someone too damn valiant and beloved to stay angry with.

He didn't know how America could manage to stay so visibly angry: he knew the manipulation had enraged Alfred as well, but that was the extent of it. Alfred was mad and that was as much as Matthew had been able to work out of his brother. They hadn't been able to sit down and _talk_ yet, not once, and Canada wasn't willing to go back to conversing in English again just so America could speak comfortably.

They both spoke Spanish: Matthew's was as coarse as his Chinese, but he could still speak and for all his complaints Alfred was perfectly fluent. But no, his brother wanted things done on his terms and the northern nation wasn't willing to bend. When he got back to Ottawa it would all be English again: every comment, meeting, invoice and e-mail. The interviews and sound-bits were almost never conducted in French, so even if Canada's boss was properly bilingual the Nation would be trapped in the same linguistic ring as always. He'd have to specifically stay in one of his two french-speaking territories to get away from it or flee up north away from the urban centres. It was pathetic.

He hated that, being forced into roles he didn't want or to behave in ways that didn't suit him. Canada was a different person at home than when he went abroad because his people _expected_ more behind closed doors than he was able to give in public.

He wasn't America's invisible twin brother at home, he wasn't France's bastard child or that guy no one except Netherlands ever remembered when talking about the World Wars. He was Canada, he was respected, he was capable, no one at home would consider it odd that he'd stepped between Switzerland and Russia to stop a fight. No one at home would be surprised by him handling Italy's trauma in the music room the way he had- but everyone here seemed freaked out by it. Had Russia only stood next to him like that because he thought Canada was going to panic and faint at the sight of so much blood?

He did not need to be _protected. _He was not a pawn for Italy to turn against his friends and family.

"I think it's time to go home." China stood up slowly and Canada watched him rise, Jumakiro squirming around in the nation's lap before managing to stand up on his hind legs. The bear affectionately placed his head on Canada's shoulder, heavy paws wrapping around his neck.

"_Home~_" The bear whined. Hugging Kumajiro warmly, Matthew felt himself smile despite the bitter feelings still tossing around in his stomach. He looked up and saw Yao extending a hand to help him up, and took it. The bear was a bit of a burden to carry around, but Canada adjusted his arm under the animal's rump and kept him up like a child. Seeing home would be really, really nice right now after everything... All of the bitter thoughts about his government and boss vanished at the thought of actually going back.

Once they were away from the international community, Canada could sit down and properly talk to America. He could have his coffee the way he liked it and enjoy hot poutine for lunch in the city. Bannock- he loved bannock bread so he'd have to whip up a batch when he got home. Which city would he stay in? They were all so different- maybe Halifax for a few days and then down through the Saint Lawrence, he could take the train across the prairies and then fly up to Yellowknife from Vancouver...

He was getting ahead of himself, but that only proved China's point: it was time to go home.

"After everything calms down, we'll talk again." The older nation said, the two of them shaking hands politely before letting go. "Our bosses... I can't even remember what they were working on aru, but it was important, right?" Yeah, Matthew couldn't remember what the business had been about either. Maybe it'd come back to him once he reached home?

They could leave now; other nations had already started going home. The conference was over, they'd read every page of the journal. There was, really, nothing left to keep them here...

"_Xièxiè nǐi, xiānshēng wáng._"

"_Merci beaucoup, monsieur Williams..._"

So with that... they went _home_...

* * *

><p>"That's so <em>stupid!<em>"

"Humour me." He was so petulant sometimes, completely unwilling to answer a mere question. It was a simple request for a nation. "_Romano._"

"Fine! Favourite cities: Napoli, Roma, Catania, Palemo, Madrid-"

"Madrid is _Spanish_."

"I know that!" Then what about Turino or Milano? Or Florence, or even, dare he say it-

"Don't fucking say it-"

"Venezia?" They were _in _Venice, he had to at least-

"_Shut up!_ I hate this stupid city! I've always hated stupid-fucking-smelly-always-flooding _Venice!_" And it seemed like _nothing_ was going to change Romano's mind...

* * *

><p><strong>Goddamn that was hard to write. I got all shakey 'cause ew, that was terrible... but once I found the right song it came together pretty quickly. I just kept having characters come up with things to say instead of getting right to the point- can you blame me?<strong>

**For reference, chronological order of Final Loop events is: 5/9, 12, 9, 13, and 10. I jumbled them on purpose. And when I deleted chapter 3 from the order I forgot to change this note to reflect that. My bad!**

**Italian:** "Let me in(side)!", "Bring me the journal-", "Forgive me father for I have sinned, but I can't save them all, _and I can't keep trying-!_"

**Huge, huge, HUGE thanks to** AnimaLight** for giving me the proper translations! I took out almost all the translated stuff in this story, but I wanted to keep it here because, well, poor baby I think Italy's been through too much to stick with English.**


	14. Again and Again With Holy Rome

**Am I Not Human?, Rest Calm, Sick, Made of Stone.**

**I keep editing the AN in chapter 1 as I change my mind about content in this story. It's not a romance so the pairings just aren't showing up the way I thought they would, so sorry for anyone who's been waiting/watching for them!**

**Actually warning you guys this time: another violent chapter here, more sinister but not as graphic as the last one. If you don't think you're up for it then just read the Romano parts- they're violence-free!**

* * *

><p><strong><em>Final Loop<em>**

Again and Again with Holy Rome

It didn't feel good. It never felt good.

_Those_ hands wearing _his _blood grasping _his_ hair, causing pain.

_Those _eyes and _that_ smile, and a laugh that wasn't right.

"Smile for me, Ita~"

Fuck you.

"_Again?_"

* * *

><p>Veneziano's residence in his city was easy to find. On the fourth level of an old building across from the famous <em>Piazza San Marco,<em> he'd claimed the top floor for himself and had always enjoyed the view of the city from the patio attached to the living room. Romano had keys to his brother's flat and held them out to Vatican for him to use, a look of pure disdain written across the half-nation's face as first the heavy iron gate over the front door was pulled open, then the thick door inside.

They'd argued all the way here.

Vatican's younger son had stopped spending so much time in Venice after reuniting with his brother in Rome, and even before that Veneziano's time had been monopolized by working as a servant in Austria's house. Despite that however, the former Republic of Venice had still found time to come back to the city of his birth from time to time. This was not going to be pleasant.

When Vatican opened the flat there was a clear film of dust across the grey wooden floors. Most of the furniture had been carefully covered with cloth sheets and plastic, a necessary precaution for the antique pieces scattered around the room. Tables, chairs, a few long couches, there was no television in the main room but even the two large mirrors Veneziano kept from his earlier years were bound up in cloth to keep them safe from harm. The main part of the flat felt like a storage room and even the kitchen had been wiped down and packed up before Veneziano had left last time.

"Why the fuck are we here, you bastard?" Romano didn't look any better now than he had on the train and that was beginning to worry the older Nation. He was pale and exhausted, his green eyes holding that unnatural hunger as he stared at the quiet, empty kitchen for several moments after stepping inside. There were a few fingers of pre-dawn light reaching into the room from the patio door- the same door that looked out across the canal onto the Piazza, but neither of them moved towards it. Romano had complained non-stop about the stink of the canal water since they'd stepped off the train, and Vatican was more focused on watching the rest of his son's reactions to the city than airing out the apartment...

"I want you to take a look around."

"At _what?_ His old, dusty-fucking furniture?" That curse didn't make any sense, if Romano was going to hide behind obscenities then at least he could put a bit more thought into them...

"Venice is an _Italian_ city." Unlike _Madrid_- the subject of their argument.

"It's a _North-fucking-Italian_ city!" Wasn't Romano still Italy? Wasn't his full name Romano Itali-? "_I know my own fucking name!_"

Vatican closed his eyes as Romano roared at him and dropped onto one plastic-bound couch in a heap, dust flaring up around him as he buried his face in his hands. Romano wasn't reduced to tears this time however, he was huffing angrily against his palms, struggling to keep himself in check after days of over-reactions. Was he settling down at all? Was this a good sign, if he was starting to calm?

It was too soon to be sure, but Vatican took a few steps closer to his son, remaining upright instead of kneeling down to be closer to Romano's level. The question was premature, but he asked:

"Where is your brother?"

* * *

><p>The first time, Feliciano woke up back in the music room. His arm was bleeding freely again and that helped tell him when and where he was. His white flag was already in stained tatters, making it easier for him to tear away the fabric and bind his forearm in a messy tourniquet. The key was gone, but he felt that it was a good sign.<p>

But why was he still here? Had he failed to get out? But that meant the others made it then. If he closed his eyes and thought really hard then yes, Feliciano was sure: everyone had escaped but him. He only had himself to worry about now, so that would make things easier.

He had to be sure though, he had to make absolutely _certain_ that no one had been left behind.

Down to the first floor: office, library, bathroom, kitchen, annex. All clear.

Basement: hallway, every hallway, office, meeting room, dungeon, cave, other offices. Clear.

Up to the second floor: bedrooms, every bedroom, including closets and corners and hidden under the beds. He prodded the ashes in the fireplace just to make sure, searching for bones or bits of uniforms. Nothing.

Third floor, fourth floor, fifth floor. Everyone was gone.

The puzzle on the fifth floor was unlocked without him having to try it. The cage of monsters was empty and silent. When he reached the final room there was no monster oozing in the corner, and the white walls were clean and pure: all the numbers erased. There was no front door key, but he knew where it was: sitting in the keyhole in the front door, just waiting to be turned so he could escape.

"I... I did it..." He hadn't wanted to say the words until he was sure, he hadn't wanted to let himself believe until it was true. But it was true: "I saved them, I saved _all_ of them..." Even the ones who hadn't come yet. He'd saved Spain and spared Romano- his brother, he was _safe..._

"_I did it!_" He was crying by then, on his knees because the emotions stole the strength out of his legs. He couldn't run anymore, he didn't have to run anymore, he'd done it. "_I saved them!"_ Tears he hadn't felt in such a long time came running warm and sweet down his cheeks. Not scared, not angry, not frustrated or in pain- happy tears, joyful sobs. Because sure, his arm hurt, and yes, he remembered what he'd done to poor England, but it was all okay now. He'd saved them.

There wasn't enough room in his heart for the joy, the tears felt like liquid music- when was the last time he'd heard music? He'd loved music. When was the last time he'd laughed like this? He'd loved laughing. When was the last time he'd painted? He'd loved painting. When was the last time-?

"_Ita~_"

He was laughing and he was crying, that was why he didn't hear _those_ footsteps coming up behind him. He was too overwhelmed with joy to feel the fear as _that_ hand grabbed him from behind, _those_ fingers digging into his face as _that_ arm jerked him back against _that_ chest. The knife stung as it sliced through the laughter, and the only thing he remembered after that was the voice he'd loved _so much_ whispering the _last thing_ he'd wanted to hear:

"_Again?_"

* * *

><p>"I don't know..." Vatican couldn't say if that was a good sign or a bad one. He just wanted Romano to calm down, and to <em>stay<em> as calm as he could. It wouldn't be easy for him, but Vatican had to push.

"I need you to think back." Slowly sinking onto the couch next to his son, the Micro-nation placed a hand on Romano's shoulder, holding on gently. Maybe it would keep him grounded, keep him here instead of... where Vatican wanted him to be. "Tell me the _last_ _thing_ your brother did."

"The last thing?"

"You mentioned Russia, and how they were running across the grounds to get away." Romano pulled his hands down, palms together and lips pressed over his thumbs as he listened to Vatican speak. He was still flushed and upset, but he was listening, staring at the dusty floor and lost in thought. "Are there any memories after that?" Romano looked confused, his voice was soft:

"Why would there be?"

* * *

><p>The second time, Feliciano woke up back in the music room. His arm was bleeding freely again and that helped tell him when and where he was. His white flag was already in stained tatters, making it easier for him to tear away the fabric and bind his forearm in a messy tourniquet. The key was gone, but he didn't know whether that was a good sign or not. He was confused. His throat hurt.<p>

Feliciano didn't know where to go and just sat there for a few moments, slowly taking in his surroundings: the snow white piano, the pale egg-shell walls, the dusty bookshelves, the harsh florescent lighting. The house was so quiet, he felt alone...

Then he remembered how they'd all escaped, and he remembered waking up like this _before_? Was that right? Something must have happened. If he'd died without the key then that meant it was probably back up on the fifth floor where it belonged, right?

Feliciano climbed through the house, moving quickly and with light steps. He didn't see any of the monsters, and when he reached the moon room he found the puzzle already solved for him. The wine-red carpets of the next chamber reflected the light in a sinister way, but the black iron bars weren't hiding anything anymore: the cell beyond was empty. Was this just what happened when you escaped? Without food, the monsters all vanished? He hoped so, his legs felt so weak and wobbly...

In the final room there was no multi-eyed abomination sitting in the corner, but there was also no key. Did that mean, maybe, that the front door was already open? He hoped so. He hoped _so-_

Oh. Oh no... What did _that_ mean?

Sitting in the middle of the pristine white floor was a bloody symbol, a number.

_1_

No, that wasn't right. He had to get out of here before something bad-

"_Ita~_" No, no, no, not _that_ voice- _that_ voice couldn't be here anymore. It had just been a dream, a nightmare, some trap he'd fallen into and since fought his way out of, there was no wa-

Feliciano turned and saw the glint of the knife just before it reached him- but he didn't have time to move. He screamed. From white to red, everything he saw tumbled into a sudden, debilitating darkness as his soft eyes felt pain and his hands flung up to find wet, mutilated flesh against his palms. He screamed and he stumbled away from the knife and the cape and the hat, his face burning as hot blood spilled over his cheeks, his ears ringing with alarms.

Something stopped him, something caught him, something made him trip and fall back- And then _he_ was on him; a hot, heavy body straddling his torso, the laughing voice, the dream, the nightmare, the-

"_Again!"_

* * *

><p>"Focus, Romano."<p>

"You're scaring me, old man..." He knew he was and, for once, it was unintentional. Romano reached up and pulled Vatican's hand off his shoulder, but instead of tossing it away the younger nation squeezed his hand tightly. Their eyes were locked on one another, Vatican refusing to give in to his son's anxiety as he stared him down, forcing him look inside to get away from the tension between them.

He asked another question:

"What did Veneziano eat in the mansion?"

* * *

><p>The third time, he woke up back in the music room. His arm was bleeding freely again and that helped tell him when and where he was. His white flag was already in stained tatters, making it easier for him to tear away the fabric and bind his forearm in a messy tourniquet. The key was gone and that scared him, his vision was blurry and took a minute or two to clear up. He rubbed his eyes several times, struggling to speed up the process and trying very hard not to think.<p>

If the key was not with him and his friends had all escaped, then all Feliciano had to do was reach the front door and get out. That was all he needed to do, he just had to run as fast as he could and escape.

Making sure the knot around his arm was as tight as he could tolerate, Feliciano cautiously opened the music room door and peered out into the hall. The house was completely silent, the pine floors clean and yellow against the white walls, the harsh florescent lighting leaving no shadows up and down the bare corridor.

He'd need his energy for the sprint to the edge of the property, so while he was inside the Italian made himself walk. It was hard, his legs were wobbling and he just wanted to bolt right away, but if he spent his reserves too quickly he'd never make it out.

But they were watching him. He couldn't see them, but he could feel the attention following him through the house. It was so hard not to run, it was so hard to slow down and make himself walk. He just wanted to run, run, run...

"Ita~" That _voice..._ It caught up with him right as Feliciano stepped down onto the first floor. He walked until he saw the long cape and the black hat, unable to see the front door through Holy Rome's back where he was standing in front of it, admiring something. "Were you looking for me, Ita?"

"I'm leaving." He was shocked that his voice still worked.

"Oh, you don't like being part of my house anymore?" The words held a double meaning, Feliciano couldn't remember it completely: the relevance of houses and living together- it wasn't them as people, but something greater than that. But he did remember one thing and said as much:

"I said no." He had, he could remember that day better than most of the others- he held the fragments of sunlight and a warm summer wind in his mind, careful not to cut himself on the sharp, jagged edges of the memory. "I refused to join you."

"And you regretted that decision for _centuries_ after..." Centuries..? "Stay, play with me..." Holy Rome was turning slowly as he spoke, his eyes closed as his voice fluttered softly past smiling lips.

"I don't like your games..." They both started walking at the same time, Feliciano straying to one side to move _past_ the man in the black robe- but Holy Rome headed him off. He had to get to the door-

Pivot left, dash and-

"_No._"

-tripped by something he didn't see and that vanished as soon as Feliciano tucked his shoulder and performed a desperate roll. Pain spiked through his body from his mangled arm, a crippling burn shooting straight from his wrist up to his heart as the limb was jostled. His mind screamed for his legs to run as soon as his feet found the floor again, but it didn't happen. It didn't work. He couldn't move through the pain-

Or maybe he could, he just wasn't fast enough for the knife...

"_Again?"_

* * *

><p>"Eat?" Yes, eat. Food, sustenance, nutrients, there was a kitchen in the house wasn't there? "There... there was nothing to eat without the safe room. The kitchen was empty."<p>

"What about sleep?" Vatican pushed, hoping to be wrong, hoping he was drawing false connections. "There were beds in almost every room, correct?" Romano was staring at him, disgusted and scared.

"How could he sleep with monsters lurking everywhere...?"

* * *

><p>The fourth time, the fifth time, the sixth time...<p>

He always woke up back in the music room. His arm was always bleeding freely again and that helped tell him when and where he was. His white flag was always already in stained tatters, making it easier for him to tear away the fabric and bind his forearm in another messy tourniquet. The key was always gone, meaning it was always resting in the front door lock.

This time he didn't tie the tourniquet though. This time he didn't even sit up, he just laid there and watched the blood spread across the pale wood floor. He didn't look at his arm, he didn't want to see the damage, he just watched the crimson puddle spread further and further out from him.

The floor in the music room wasn't level, that was why his blood- not _his_, but the man with the white suit and the black hair. That was why his blood had spread towards Feliciano like that, in the memories. The music room floor wasn't level, the boards had warped with age, bulging and creating little dips and valleys. So he watched his blood flow down those little crevasses, forgetting that it was blood, forgetting where it was coming from, forgetting why the distant sound of footsteps suddenly made him so afraid...

"_Again."_

* * *

><p>"Calm down."<p>

"Tell me what that means!"

"Romano, calm down." Vatican could see him beginning to panic and reached out, taking his son's face between his hands. He watched Romano slip off the couch and sink to his knees, hands gripping the edge of the Micro-nation's robe. The fear in his green eyes almost seemed irrational, but Vatican didn't say anything of the sort. "Calm down and think clearly, order your thoughts."

"I... I'm trying." He did look sincere as he said that... "W-why would you ask me that? Those things? What could they-?"

"Are you tired, Romano?" He interrupted, watching the fear spike again and running one hand back through Romano's hair, careful to avoid the curl and the effects such a caress would have on him. "Calm down. You've been sleeping all day, are you still-?"

"_Why?_" That sounded like a yes. "_Why_ am I like this?"

"Calm down..." A kiss on his son's forehead and he felt a few hot tears slip down Romano's cheeks and reach his hands. He didn't remove his touch, he wouldn't dare do that right now. When Romano buried his face in Vatican's lap he just rubbed his son's shoulders and back calmly, feeling him shake with nerves and fright.

* * *

><p>The seventh time, the eighth time, the ninth time...<p>

He woke up in the music room. His arm was bleeding. His flag became a tourniquet. The key was waiting in the lock.

He actually made it outside that time.

But then Holy Rome dragged him back in.

It didn't feel good. It never felt good to have _those _hands on his body_._ Whenever the knife cut his clothes it slashed his skin, but _that_ tongue was always there to lap it up. He couldn't stand having _that_ breath on his neck, or feeling _those_ fingers curling around his throat. Holy Rome's touch bruised the skin every time Feliciano was slammed up against the walls- this time it was the second floor.

"Share your dreams with me, Ita, they're so pretty and nice..." The blow knocked the wind out of him, leaving his body pinned and breathless with his tunic and shirt slashed open, his working arm pinned by the wrist over to the side. "They always tell me exactly what you like..." He thrashed against the chest pressing against his, pulled his head away from the lips teasing his ear and attacking his neck.

"_Fuck you!" _His crippled arm twitched uselessly at his side, one knee up and wedged defensively between their bodies.

"Again? With pleasure..." _No!_

"_Tu non sei lui! Non lo sei!__"_ But his body betrayed him, his injuries stole his strength away and, like a woman, his legs were forced apart as Holy Rome's body slammed him into the wall again. The force bruised his pelvis and lips that bit and tore at his mouth attacked him, laughter filling his ears as the hand at his throat vanished.

But then it was back, bloody fingers tangling in his hair-

_"Lasciami andare! LASCIAMI!"_Whole locks of hair, not just the sensitive curl. The monster wrapped his fingers round and round and Feliciano screamed for it to stop. He couldn't look, he closed his eyes until the tears came, blood filling his mouth from the sharp, careless bites. Pleasure collided with the pain in his nerves and poisoned his flesh.

"_Non mi toccare!"_ No- _no!_ _Stop! Go away!_

The sharp knife and cold air both touched his skin before he was dropped to the floor- his legs kicking inside slashed pants, his boots scraping the floor trying to push him back. But the hand in his hair hadn't let go- it twisted violently and tore entire clumps away from his scalp. He felt the bleeding on his head start and screamed again when a knee came down on his groin, white and red exploding behind his shut eyes as the pain crippled his body. The weight of the devil climbed over to crush him, the knife splitting open his side before the _real_ violence-

"_Smettila!_" He gagged on the stink of dead, rotted flesh that washed over him from the monster. He hated how under it all lingered the soft scent of white daisies and blue cornflowers. He hated how his body wasn't strong enough to escape violation. He hated how the blood seeping into his lungs was too slow to drown him right away. He hated how his useless arm was bent back and used against him as his insiders were torn and bled.

He hated how he was left, exposed and violated, to feel what little warmth remained in his flesh bleed out under those harsh florescent lights...

And he hated... how he'd be... with no choice...

_Again..._

* * *

><p>"You're hungry."<p>

"He can't eat-"

"You're exhausted."

"He can't sleep-"

"Romano..."

"We're _brothers_..."

He hugged his son, it was the only thing Vatican could do and he kept his own eyes shut, shaking his head slowly, wrestling with what was happening. He didn't want this anymore than Romano did, but he also knew he wasn't _hurting_ as much as South Italy either. If he could have changed it, he would, but he'd separated himself too completely from Italy to get caught up in what was happening.

What about Seborga..?

"Romano..." He could feel it burning a hole in his pocket- the bundle of letters Veneziano had left behind for them. But not yet, he had to be _sure_ before he pulled out something like that! "Romano,_ where _is your brother?"

"_No..."_

"What is your last memory?" Calm down, he stroked his son's dark hair and lowered his lips down to the back of Romano's head, his voice quiet but strong. "Where is your _brother?_"

* * *

><p>The tenth time, the eleventh time, the twelfth time...<p>

Music room. Bleeding. Flag. Tourniquet. Key.

Feliciano took what little he was worth and _ran_ for all of it. Down the stairs, and armed with an empty gun that deflected the knife before it could cut into him again. A sharp pistol whip across false-eyes forced the germanic ghost to recoil for a moment, just a very short moment, but it was enough for Feliciano to grab the key and throw his weight into the iron pieces: he was just heavy enough to force the locks to disengage.

And then he was out, and running, running as fast as he possibly could. The creature couldn't catch him on a straight-away. Holy Rome couldn't keep up with him in a dead heat. This time nothing would trip him, or grab him, or stop him. No amount of pain or fear was going to make his body fail again, he was not going to submit himself to that _again!_ No more again! _No more!_

"_Fratellino!_"

No, no, no! Not that voice-!

"_Romano!-?_"

* * *

><p>"<em>NO! I'd never do that!"<em>

"**_Romano!_**_"_

Vatican almost wound up on the floor with the violence Romano used to pull away from him, South Italy staying on his knees while the Holy See struggled to keep himself upright. Romano's hands were up over his eyes and he was swearing violently, the older nation confused and staring.

"_It wasn't me! I wasn't there! I only went once it couldn't be me!"_

"_LOVINO!"_ The name and the volume caused Romano's eyes to snap up, his face miserable and tear-stained as Vatican slid down onto his knees and grasped his son's face, forcing him to maintain eye contact. "Your _last_ memory!"

"There isn't one!" He kept staring, he felt Romano pull away and he just held on tighter, not letting the half-nation get away from him. "Every time you ask those stupid questions I see something else! I remember more! I don't know what happened because it's like it just-! like it keeps-!" Gasps broke up Romano's speech, Vatican slowly easing his grip on the younger nation's head, brushing his son's hair back trying to sooth him. "No... No... it's not still..."

Vatican closed his eyes and leaned forward, touching his lips to the middle of Romano's forehead. The gesture seemed to paralyse him for a moment, but when he woke up South Italy's wide green eyes were frantically searching his face, looking for answers.

"What do you know?" Romano's voice was just above a whisper, and instead of answering him Vatican twisted and reached around into the deep pockets of his cassock, pulling out the bundle of letters that made Romano instinctively shy back. "Why are you carrying those around? We already read them!"

"No." Vatican answered, unfolding the bundle and removing the exterior sheets. He'd re-sealed the ones on the inside, Romano knew he'd read them, but this helped keep them separate. "These I read to you in Naples." He cast aside the first letter, not letting Romano touch them as he tentatively reached out with one hand. "These, I read on the train to Rome." The second bundle, the one Romano flinched away from.

"And... And then we came here..?"

"I had to be sure."

"Sure of what?" Vatican simply peeled aside the tape and turned the bundle so it was facing Romano, pulling open the three-part folds and holding the first page up so his son _had_ to read what was written. Two words:

_Help me._

"N-No..."

Second page: a prayer Romano could read later, not now.

Third page: a detailed floor plan of a large building labelled Ground Floor. The words _Help me_ repeated on the lower left hand corner.

"No this, he-"

Forth page: Second Floor. _Help me._

Fifth page: Third Floor. _Help me._

"Stop-!"

Eighth page: Geographic co-ordinates taken from someone's GPS function on their phone during one of the later, more desperate loops. Access codes and permissions for the Italian Military- _sensitive_ information. _Help me._

Ninth page: _Kill them, kill them all, Fratello. If I haven't escaped then I can't- kill them, **help me!**_

"They wouldn't do that! They wouldn't escape without-!"

Tenth page: _For the love of God, Romano, I don't care what you do- GET ME OUT OF HERE!_

"_VENEZIANO!"_

Everything after that was pictures, some drawn with the pen that had bled all over the page, some smeared with hands and fingers. Clocks, dozens of clocks, but there were diagrams and technical information thrown in under the jarring images of bodies flung to the ground or collapsed in corners. Monsters, most of them: creatures with long necks, some with hulking bodies, notes about teeth and beaks and talons, claws and spikes and tails. Details, so many details: the parameters of the cage on the top floor, measurements for hallways, the dimensions of the doors, typical attack patterns for different _kinds_ of monsters, a map of the exterior grounds.

And copious warnings, the constant repetition of the words: _do not cross the line._ It was painted everywhere, on every page, _do not cross the line._ Four pages were dedicated to the moss-covered pillars that marked the edge of the haunted property, each one showing a different angle and all of them begging _do not cross the line._

Romano snatched the pages away from him long before Vatican was finished flipping through them, but he didn't try to calm Romano down or take them back. The Half-nation was pacing erratically, screaming, shouting, crying.

"_They left him! They abandoned him! Those bastards I'll kill them all I fucking swear it!_" He swore it and he meant it. Vatican was insulted by his own pathetic reaction to what he was watching, bringing his wrist up and covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve, trying to swallow the sobs backing up painfully in his throat.

"_He's alive! He's still alive! **They left him!**"_ Was that the worst part? Or was it the fact that Veneziano had _expected_ to be left behind? That he'd planned for it? That he'd-

"Romano-"

"_My brother! My frattelino! They-! They- AAAAAGH!-!"_ Romano was pacing like a caged beast, throwing away the pages and taking handfuls of his hair like he was going to rip it out- and in fact he did, pulling and screaming until Vatican stood up and crossed the floor between them. He slapped Romano as hard as he dared and cut off the screams, refusing to wipe away the hot, uncomfortable tears that slipped down his own cheeks as Romano turned, stunned, to look at him.

"_Where _is your brother?" He demanded, his voice as black as he could make it with the rough lumps caged in his throat and chest. Romano tried to look away and Vatican raised his arm to slap him again, forcing out the answer.

"_Hell!_" That's right. That was what Vatican had feared all this time, what he'd been dreading to hear. He wanted Romano to say '_Right here.'_ or '_With me.'_ or anything that wasn't _that word_, but it was true. It was true and Vatican had never wished death on any of his children as much as he did right then. It would have been so much better for Veneziano to be several weeks dead than... than whatever he was _now._

"He's in Hell."

"_Don't fucking repeat me!"_

Vatican slapped him again. _Harder._

"_Your brother is in **Hell**._" He enunciated each word clearly, he drove them like pieces of glass into Romano's skin and made sure they stayed there, burning, hurting, festering. And he knew it was the right thing to do, because instead of breaking down into starving, exhausted, gutless sobs again, Romano just gave him a look that could have burnt the flesh off his bones. "And _you-"_

"_Don't give me-!"_

"_And **you**-!"_ They were shouting, they were screaming, they were crying but damn them both they were _connecting_.**_"_**_You are going to** bring him back!**"_

The devil was not going to take his son! The devil was not going to win! The devil was not going to pollute an earnest soul and carry it off to his domain! He was not going to take a descendant of Rome, a son of the Holy Catholic Church, a martyr for his friends, a shining example for the world- _the devil would not have his son!_

"_BRING HIM **BACK!**"_

* * *

><p><strong>Woop! Woop! Go Papataly!<strong>

**Hey, you guys should let me know when there're silly mistakes in these chapters! I had to reupload chapter 9 because England's jacket changed colours three times- so embarrassing!**

**Italian:** "You're not him! YOU'RE NOT!" **I'm actually positive that this is wrong since translating it back and forth broke the sentence. **"Let go!" "Don't touch me!""Stop it!"

**Haha~ Just a few more chapters to go! See you guys on Saturday!**


	15. The Swiss Question

**Don't Mess With Me, Glory, Rest Calm, Utopia, The Chosen Ones, Dark Hetalia.**

**If I had to guess now I'd actually say that HetaOni takes place in Russia, not Switzerland, but I still like this plot too much to go and retroactively edit their location. Switzerland is a bad(ass) host!**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

The Swiss Question

Ivan Braginski had been home in Moscow for three days. He couldn't remember the great many things he'd done for the first 48 hours after crossing his own border, but the Russian Federation knew what he'd been doing for the past 24.

It was pretty boring, actually, staring at the old land-line telephone sitting in the middle of his desk. He was at home and had cleared away all of the paperwork his boss wanted him to review at some point too, so it was just the phone. President Medvedev had been most understanding upon setting eyes on Russia so he had the next month free from his consulting work with the government. Or two months if he needed them. Or three. Or if he wanted to then Ivan was free to start working again immediately, it was his choice.

_'He thinks I'm going to snap and destroy everything that we've accomplished in the last twenty years...'_ The thought was ironic and made him smile a little, but it wasn't enough to make him move from his desk. Elbows resting on the hard wood, his fingers were woven together with his chin sitting on them, watching the phone. _'I do not like this guilt thing. It is pretty horrendous.'_

There were many other things Ivan would prefer to do with his time: he wanted to walk around Moscow and see the people busying through his capitol. He wanted to take the train out from one edge of his nation all the way east- as far east as he could go until he was at Korea's house, and then turn around and come back. A walking tour of his backyard would be a wonderful idea. He was actually craving the sight and power of the coming Russian winter. He'd never thought he'd ever feel that way about the crass General, but there it was...

There was also someone he wanted to visit a lot more than Korea, a date that he was coming dangerously close to missing by sitting here... but like everything else his promise would have to wait until after this phone call. He was all ready to go too, he just needed- oh!

Russia didn't jump as the phone started blaring at him, but the high trill surprised him as he settled his violet eyes back down on the device. The noise cut straight through his thoughts as he straightened up at his desk and listened to it, counting. Oh, but he didn't want to keep the person on the other end waiting, his back was sore from sitting here all day and night waiting for him to call.

"Allo? Braginksi speaking. Is this you?" That felt like all he had to say, Ivan sticking to English because he didn't know Italian, and Romano wouldn't want to try Russian. About ten seconds later, he was shocked.

It was the call he had been waiting for, but not the content he could have imagined...

"... _Da, konechno. _You have my complete and unwavering support, Comrade. Leave the rest to me." And then he hung up.

Oh my... how exciting. It ruined his plans, but it was still exciting.

* * *

><p>Every world leader knew, usually without being told, to watch their National Avatar very closely. Nation spirits, Angels, Personifications, Representatives, it didn't matter what you wanted to call them: if you were in a position of strong political power then it was <em>imperative<em> that you watch over them with all due diligence. Empires had been won and lost just by judging, nevermind simply _asking,_ how the Avatars in question felt about the changes taking place around them.

World leaders had to watch the Avatars because they weren't human- but this didn't mean they had to be babied or locked up. They behaved perfectly normally in everyday situations and knew how to live natural lives in amongst the population, but that was the extent of things. They lived _like_ humans, but they were anything _but_ human.

Veneziano usually forgot the Italian President's name at least three times in any given conversation, provided he even asked to begin with and didn't just refer to him strictly as "Boss". Romano made a habit of saying how much Giorgio Napolitoni reminded South Italy of a young resistance member during the Second World War- always completely failing to remember that Presidente Napolitoni _had been_ _that fighter._ Seborga didn't show up in Rome very often unless something in particular was happening in the Northwest (and even then, Veneziano was usually on point and already knew about whatever it was), but whenever he did he usually couldn't focus on any kind of business that wasn't at least five years in the country's past or future.

As a world leader he had to watch the Avatar or, specifically, the _Avatars_ who made up the Republic of Italy very closely. Nation Spirits were not meant to reside in the moment because they existed for the two extremes of humanity: the ancestral peoples and their coming descendants. He had to watch them because so as long as Veneziano, Romano, and Seborga remained completely oblivious toward anything going on in the immediate present, there was nothing to worry about.

"Presidente Napolitoni."

So that was why Giorgio Napolitoni, President of the Italian Republic, was upset- no, he was _disturbed_, when South Italy stepped into his office almost two months after North Italy's last contact with Rome.

* * *

><p>"F-Father Vatican?"<p>

"Good morning, Liechtenstein."

Her brother had rules about who could open the front door, but this early in the morning with the autumn sun just peering over the alps, Switzerland wasn't awake yet to answer the bell himself.

Liechtenstein knew she was a good, quiet, well behaved little nation, but for some reason that gave her no comfort as the ancient Micro-nation let himself into the house. She didn't invite him, he just stepped past her and removed the square red cap on his head, holding it out dismissively for her to take. It was rude. It was incredibly rude, but the stern look on his old, wrinkled face told her not to say anything about it.

"Is Switzerland home? I have something he needs to hear." B-Big brother?

"If... if he's awake, sir, Switzerland should be having his coffee in the garden." If he was awake. Liechtenstein wasn't even sure he'd gotten dressed yet: today was his day off.

"Then go fetch him. I'll be waiting here in the drawing room." So rude! B-but, as soon as Liechtenstein felt the courage to say something she noticed the large, sealed dossier that Vatican was carrying with him. The file was tucked under his arm while his other hand toyed with the silver crucifix hanging around his neck. His clothing was all black and red, the same style he always wore, true, but it seemed so much more threatening in those colours. Usually he wore bright red whenever Liechtenstein saw him...

And usually he was so kind to her when they met... She watched the resin-beaded rosary swing from Vatican's waist as he walked boldly through the house towards the drawing room, sincerely doubting that the Holy See was carrying any of the little sweets in his pocket that he'd usually pass out to her on holy days... Why was he acting like this?

"Th-This is my brother's house you know!" She was shaking so hard Liechtenstein almost dropped the hat she'd been handed to put away, her voice hitching in her throat as Vatican stopped and sent a very dark, very _mean_ look back over his shoulder at her. Why was he so mad? His Italian accent was suddenly so thick when he opened his mouth again, a spark she hadn't seen in over a hundred and fifty years igniting in the pale brown of his eyes.

"Indeed it is." Grave and dark, that was what his voice sounded like, the melody of his sermons abandoned for something incredibly fierce... "But if you insist on being difficult with me now, dear girl, then neither you nor your brother will have much of a house left to worry about by the end of things." W-what? "_Go. Fetch. Him._"

"Y-y-yes, sir!"

_Switzerland!-!_

* * *

><p>"... It's not November, Romano." This wasn't a joke, neither the President's words nor Romano's outfit were meant to be <em>funny<em>. "Why are you wearing that?"

World Leaders had to watch their Nations very closely, because if they started behaving oddly, or acting out of sync, or feeling strange, or speaking differently, then it meant trouble.

"Is it the Arab Spring? What's wrong? Where is-?"

"Mobilize the army."

"_What?"_

The President held his hands flat on his wide desk, eyes open as far as they would go as he felt himself go silent at the request- the _demand_. That had not been a suggestion, Romano was not giving him _advice_.

South Italy was standing in front of the President of the Republic wearing the shaded brown camouflage pants and tunic of the Italian Army. It was a combat uniform, not the ceremonial outfit he and his brothers wore on the 4th of November every year to commemorate the World Wars. His black boots were polished and the black barret on his head was free of lint, the silver badge glistening in the light of the morning sunshine coming in through the office window. The pants were thick and baggy around his legs, the jacket similar in style with a black belt cinching the waist. A pistol- a standard Beretta, was strapped to his thigh and there were trim leather gloves on his hands.

The last time this had happened- the last time his nation had been ready for _war_, Veneziano and Romano had been _called_ to his office. They'd saluted and they'd both remembered his name, but that had still been a discussion- a _conversation_, a very tense one where they had hashed out the Nation's precise feelings about what was happening around the Mediterranean, and it had ended with their decision to join the UN efforts in Lybia.

This, this was different. This was the Nation telling the _Leader_ how to lead.

"Romano, tell me what's going on." Why did South Italy look so pale? His eyes were hollow and dark, he was standing firmly in front of him but still seemed to be wavering back and forth slightly, like he was about to collapse for some reason. Was it the mafia?

"This-" South Italy was holding two folders under his arm, Presidente Napolitoni had seen them but had been distracted by everything_ else_ about his nation's appearance. Now one of them was placed on his desk and slid towards him. "-is what the target knows." Target? No. This wasn't the mafia.

Target was a carefully chosen word: it implied something that couldn't fight back, or simply _wouldn't. _Target meant fast, clean, simple, it meant evasions in the political arena and efficiency in the military one. If it was the mafia then Romano would have said "those bastards" or "_Cosa Nostra_", not target.

The President opened it immediately, finding himself looking at photocopies. They were pages all scribbled over in Italian, photographed and enhanced with annotations at the bottom of pages to clarify places where the writing had grown sloppy. A floor-plan? Measurements. Dimensions. Geographic co-ordinates. Warnings? "_Do not cross the line."_? The target was small, a single complex with a large subterranean compound attached...

"Where is this?" He looked up with the demand. "Why do you want the army? A smaller force-"

"_This-_" Romano placed the second folder on the desk, and this one South Italy opened himself- ignoring the red words stamped on the front marked CONFIDENTIAL, and TOP SECRET. No democratic leader ever liked seeing those words on his desk... "This is why we need the army."

"Mother of God, Romano, what is this...?"

* * *

><p>"Thirty-six hours." Vatican had no patience for Switzerland's shouting today, not right now, possibly never again depending on how today and tomorrow went. He cut him off mid-rant with those words because he simply couldn't stand to hear it right now.<p>

"What are you talking about?" The Swiss Confederation had a terrible temper when his morning coffee was interrupted, but Vatican didn't particularly care right now. Switzerland had stormed inside from his garden wearing wrinkled grey slacks and a white shirt- and slippers on his feet, that was how casually he lazed about on his days off. Vatican wasn't criticizing him, he was just struck by the terrible irony.

"You have thirty-six hours before an Italian air-strike cuts into Swiss airspace."

"_WHAT!_"

"An air-strike." Removing the dossier from under his arm, Vatican held the confidential document out to the other nation, allowing Switzerland to snatch it from him and tear into the paperwork. "And if they fail to complete their objective then you'll have the Italian Army to worry about."

"W-what the fuck is Italy thinking!-? The army? _Why!_" It was always interesting to see how the world didn't seem to know or care about the differences between North and South Italy. Whichever one of them showed up at the meetings was Italy to the world, and Switzerland was no different now.

"He wants his brother back, and I agree." He watched Switzerland choke on _that_ for a moment, mustering up his patience and waiting for the inevitable response.

"Back? That's not possible! The Swiss army will take care of those- those _things!_"

"Really? When?" It had been well over a month. When exactly was Switzerland going to take care of it?

"I... My government is still-"

"You had your chance, now the Italian Army will have theirs."

"I am a sovereign nation! Do _not_ threaten me!"

* * *

><p>"...Where is Seborga?"<p>

"Outside." The fact that the Principality of Seborga was in Rome at all spoke depths. "San Marino is with him." No, no, no, San Marino wasn't even part of Italy! But he was close with-

"He's in here." Romano answered the question before the President could ask about the last brother, Napolitoni looking at the Nation's face instead of down at the documents from the first dossier. South Italy looked dead on his feet and worked to the bone, the uniform masking his struggles until you came close enough to see them for certain. The papers were pushed aside until the floor-plan labelled "Third Floor" appeared on top, and Romano pointed at one room in particular.

"The music room?" He didn't want to know how Romano knew that for certain. The president simply looked from the documents back up at his Nation, wondering absently why he knew the expression on Romano's face. He hated the fact that he knew exactly what South Italy was going to say even before he said it, because just like that-

"I want him _back._"

Just like that, it was September 1943.

* * *

><p>"I'm not here to threaten you, Switzerland, I'm here telling you what's happening."<p>

"And I'm sending you _back_ to Rome so you can tell that pasta-brained fool that if he comes _near_ my borders I'll shoot him out of the fucking sky!"

"You will? That would be an act of war."

"_An air-strike is an act of war!_" Mm, two wrongs didn't make a right, Switzerland was correct to point that out. However- "I'll take him to the UN and rake him over the coals! Lybia will be a joke compared to what _I'll _do to-"

"The UN won't help you." He interrupted, watching Switzerland toss the papers to the floor and pace furiously. "He's prepared to accept whatever economic sanctions you _won't_ be able to convince the EU to give him, but with Russia's veto-"

"_Russia!-?_"

"Of course. The Republic is not as careless as you'd like to think." Romano had a plan, and not only that he was both smart enough to put it together and incensed enough to pull it off. "Italy has many friends."

"And I have an entire garrison of Swiss guards stationed in the _middle_ of Rome!" That was true, which was why Vatican merely scoffed, holding his hands up in front of him, wrists together and fingers hanging.

"Italy knows that too, why do you think I'm here?" Because the Swiss Guard in Rome was _Vatican's_ security, so the first thing Switzerland would obviously try would be to take the Vatican City from inside the capitol. Switzerland almost choked.

"_He's sacrificing you!-?"_

"No, I volunteered. Romano was going to come himself as a token of good-will, but I told him that would be foolish." Unless Switzerland intended to burn Vatican's house to the ground then the Swiss Guards would have only so many options for attack. They were not equiped to take Rome at large.

"Good will! Old man you've lost your mind!"

"Have I? If anyone wants to declare a war here, apparently it's you." The blond was just staring at him now, completely at a loss for words as Vatican reeled in his temper. Switzerland was either about to erupt in a great show of violence or he was going to _listen_ to what the Holy See had to say. "Italy is not, and I repeat: he is _not _declaring war."

"Then what the hell is-"

"_Let me finish._" Speaking as one would to a temperamental child, Vatican gestured sharply for Switzerland to sit down on the arm chair resting in the corner of his salon. The blond was extremely hesitant to comply, but the religious order fixed his gaze sharply on Switzerland until he did as told, Vatican collecting the dossier off the floor at the same time. Then he explained:

"A war in Central Europe would be devastating for all parties, and you know this. Economic sanctions against Italy either from the European Union or the United Nations would cripple everyone- _especially_ _you._ Russia will veto any requests for military action against Italy that you make to the UN, and if you think any of the other veto-wielding members will come to your aid then _you are wrong._" Because the other four members were China, France, Britain, and America, and all Romano would have to do- all he was going to do _anyways_ was pick up a phone and tell them exactly what was going on and they would side with him.

"So he's not declaring war, that bastard just expects to walk in and take over my-!"

"_Sit. Down._" Switzerland was half-way to standing when Vatican held a hand out, standing much closer to the neutral power now and making sure that he was understood. Switzerland would have to crash into him in order to get up, and the Alpine Republic would _not_ want to do that. "Think. Look at what I handed you, and _think_."

Everything about Switzerland expressed how much he just wanted to scream and shoot something, but the cold sweat trickling down his face also hinted at the turmoil going on inside of him. There was a great deal to worry about with a situation like this, there were plenty of reasons to panic and do something rash and dangerous. Vatican kept speaking as Switzerland opened the dossier again, going through the paperwork carefully this time. He allowed the Swiss confederacy to read what was in front of him.

"...He's going to launch two AMX aircraft from the Istrana air base tomorrow at the eleven." Vatican was going to pretend he knew what AMX meant, and continued listening. "Both will be armed with air-to-air and air-to-ground missiles, they... They'll be operating on an international frequency?" Switzerland would know exactly where they were in that case, so at any given moment he could either radio in to the pilots or simply track and- "Is he _asking_ me to shoot them down?"

"He is asking you to _trust_ _him..._" Vatican made the admission through clenched teeth, practically hissing the last two words. "He does not want a _war_..." But he was preparing for one and that was the only reason why Romano was putting the strike off until tomorrow. Thirty-six hours was not enough time to bring together the entire Italian Army, but it was enough to begin scrambling forces and preparing the press releases. "He's fully aware that you can and_ will_ shoot his men down without any further provocation, he is asking you to _trust_ the information he is giving you about their mission." If they deviated, they would die. It was that simple.

Switzerland was looking through the papers again, flipping them sharply and looking for the specifics: the location they would be hitting, the layout of the compound, the dimensions of the building, the estimated population and collateral damage. Vatican didn't need to read the information himself, he'd been there in Veneziano's office when Romano had drafted it yesterday and last night. Pausing in his search, Switzerland looked up at him with disbelief written across his face, marred with disgust.

"He's doing all of this for a _corpse?_" Vatican just wanted to slap him for daring to suggest such a thing.

"He is doing this for his brother."

"North Italy is _dead!_"

"So was Liechtenstein!" Switzerland stopped and the Holy See kept going. "She was killed and now she's sitting upstairs in her room! Do not be a fool, Switzerland this is not a simple matter of planes and missiles: the Devil has his hand in the world and that hand turns back time when and however it pleases!"

"Don't make this sound like a crusade!"

"This is as much about faith as it is fact!" He snapped. His temper: it snapped right in half. "Veneziano _is_ alive and Romano _is_ going to get him back- with or without your consent! My son _borrowed_ black magic from that monster and now the Devil is using it against him- _and I will not stand for it! You have had a MONTH!"_

"To convince my boss that there are time travelling _aliens_living right in my-?"

"_YES!_ Just because you're neutral doesn't mean you're not accountable! If you didn't know before then _fine! _But you know _now!"_ He even knew about the attack, he knew everything he could possible need in order to plan the next two days with extreme caution! "Romano is going to destroy that mansion and all of the beasts inside. By the time those planes launch tomorrow he will be at the property attempting to get his brother out- and if Veneziano doesn't make it then Romano isn't going to let him keep trying!" Every time Veneziano managed to make it out of the house, he was caught or cut down or something worse was done to him. If that was how things ended tomorrow then Romano was still going to order the air-strike, the mansion would still go up in flames, and he would still destroy that evil clock standing at the heart of it.

Switzerland was red-eyed and staring at him, fury rolling down his shoulders and pinching his thin lips together as he gripped the arms of his chair tight enough to rip the upholstery. Vatican just stood there in front of him, watching the other nation fight and struggle and come to grips with what he was hearing.

"What-" Switzerland spoke and then stopped, clenching his teeth again and looking away as the fight wasn't calming down. He was still furious. "What is the official story? It's not in here." He made a sharp, dismissive gesture to the pages in his lap. "What is his government going to tell the world? What's his excuse? Because if it's _'time-travelling aliens kidnapped North Italy and killed him'_ then Russia can veto until he's blue in the face: I run the banks, I hold the money."

Unwillingly, the Vatican nodded.

"Which is why you get to decide." Another olive branch from Romano. He was nothing like Rome. "Anarchists, terrorists, he doesn't care what you call them. You can even brand it a joint training mission if you want to, it's irrelevant so long as it doesn't make the situation any more difficult than it already has to be."

"So I control the spin." Yes. So long as they didn't outright attack the Italian Republic the Swiss could say whatever they wanted, but that wasn't keeping Romano for preparing for a propaganda campaign if his northern neighbour refused to play nice. "The mission codes he's giving his pilots, what happens if I reject them when they try passing into Swiss airspace?"

"None of your people will be in dange-"

"My sovereignty is under threat, Vatican. What happens if I reject the codes?"

"...They will be ordered to carry out their mission."

"Regardless of Swiss sovereignty."

"Yes."

The mercenary's lips went even thinner than before, the blood pressed out of them by his teeth.

"What happens if Veneziano dies before thirty-six hours have passed?"

"No doubt the monster will bring him back." Switzerland stopped biting his lips and stared at him, his expression changing just enough to indicate confusion. "On average..." Oh, these next words were painful... "On average, Veneziano only survives about four hours inside the mansion before he is killed."

The math was childishly simple: a thirty-six hour wait with a four hour average meant Veneziano was going to suffer at least _nine more times_ before his rescue could begin_._ And even then, there was no guarantee that he would even survive the rescue...

"Why is he waiting?" The anger wasn't _gone_ from Switzerland's voice, but it was subdued and beginning to diffuse through the other nation. He relaxed his grip on the arm-rests next to him and wasn't glaring quite so harshly. His question sounded earnest, his face was surprised. "Why haven't the jets already blasted over my head?" Why was Romano willing to kill his brother _nine times over_ if he already knew what was happening?

"Because he doesn't know what you're going to do." Switzerland was staring at him, but he was listening. Thank the Lord he was listening. "Because he doesn't want to start another war in Europe. Because he knows Veneziano will never forgive him for starting a war just to rescue him, or for crippling the European economy with sanctions and financial black-mail."

_'Because he only represents the south and he doesn't know how to rally the north without stirring up separatists. Because I can only do so much if Tuscany or Lombardy or any of the others start becoming self aware again in an effort to avoid another war. And because if North Italy breaks apart right now then the last of Feliciano's sanity will go along with it.'_

Because if everything backfired and Romano found himself falling headlong into a war, South Italy would have to conquer his brother's territories before they could scatter and declare independence.

Because as long as the Swiss question stood without an answer, Romano had to make sure the Italian house was ready for _anything..._

* * *

><p><strong>Italy is a centralized government but at least three northern regions (plus the islands of Sicily and Sardinia) behave more like Federal statesprovinces, it's these regions that Vatican/Romano are most worried about having break away. For my Canadian readers, think of the Quebec Conscription Crises back during both World Wars.**

**September 8th 1943 was the day the Kingdom of Italy surrendered to the Allies and the Italian Resistance began fighting against German forces across the peninsula.**

**I'm glad I fact-checked the Italian Air Force! Originally I had the planes launching from the Milano airbase, but they don't have any fighters stationed there. It's better that they fly from Istrana too: it's a commune in the Veneto region, Veneziano's corner of the country. The only other suitable air base was the Amendola Air Force base in Foggia, but that's way too far from the Swiss border to make any sense.**


	16. Stringiamci a Coorte

"_When I get out of here this place won't be the same as before, you know! As a nation I will** destroy** this place!"_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

Stringiamci a Coorte

"_Switzerland!"_

"If he tries getting out, shoot him."

Liechtenstein closed her eyes where she was hiding, lips pinched together and hands tightly woven together in front of her, lifted like she was trying to pray. She heard her Big Brother's boots clacking against the hall floor as he left, a pair of Swiss Guards standing outside the bedroom door where he'd just locked Father Vatican. The door rattled and jumped as he pounded on it, the heavy oak refusing to budge.

"_YOU CAN'T DO THIS!_" More banging, and what sounded like Vatican had thrown something trying to get out. But Switzerland was already gone and only the two guards and Liechtenstein could hear the cardinal's voice as whatever he threw shattered and hit the floor. He wasn't being hurt, but he was being held and she knew- just intrinsically _knew_, that right now in Rome the Swiss Guards were being commanded to close off the Vatican City to visitors and hold members of the clergy inside the enclave.

The humans were being lied too: security drill, nothing to worry about. Just a precaution.

"_I hold the ear of over one **billion** people! I will **not**-" _But even if their governments didn't, the nations knew better. They knew much, much better.

Crying, Liechtenstein hurried back to her room and locked the door. Could she call someone..?

_'I didn't scream before...'_ Could she scream now?

* * *

><p>"<em>Goodnight, Beijing!<em>" He loved this city! China loved-loved-LOVED this city! It didn't matter where he was: atop the executive high-rises, wandering the Forbidden City, or staying here, in one of the more run down parts of the metropolis, China _LOVED_ Beijing! "Keep making noise, aru! Don't ever quiet down!"

Snarking to himself about his own annoying declaration, the ancient nation hugged the stuffed Shinatty plushie to his chest, sitting in the open window with one leg dangling out down the side of the building. He wasn't scared of falling, but it'd probably hurt real bad when he hit the ground if it happened.

He wouldn't die though. China was China again, a fall wouldn't kill him.

Loud city, noisy city, _living_ city. He loved Beijing! All the hawking voices and the blaring horns and construction crashes and bicycle bells- it was so noisy he could barely hear himself think! Even the internet inside his Great Firewall was active and obnoxious, the knock-off cellphone in China's hands beeping erratically with blogs and micro-blogs and feeds all cramming their way into the device. He was connected, aru! It was the most amazing feeling!

He could laugh or he could cry and it didn't matter here: the sound would go out and get lost in the noise without bouncing back to him. No more stark white rooms and empty white halls, no more standing paralysed under florescent lights or holding his breath listening for far-off, thumping footfalls. China was free here, he was the many and untouchable.

Oh! Oh! His phone was ringing! The device jumped in his hand and started wailing loudly, a broken sound-bit looping rapidly and telling him- eh? Russia? Why was he calling him at a time like this? China had only been home for a few days, aru! He didn't want to talk about work yet!

"This is me, aru." He answered, a typical greeting in case it wasn't Ivan Braginski on the line, but some Russian clerk or government rep who needed to get in contact with him. Usually only nations called nations, but you could never be too careful. "What? _Ai-yaa,_ Rus- Ivan slow down! Where are you?"

Jumping back into the apartment and shutting the window behind him, it blocked some of the endless noise from the twilight streets below. China was sorry to cut Beijing off like that, but he was trying to hear through the static coming across the line. That was so weird- this was a secure device, there shouldn't be any interference even if he was taking a call from Moscow.

"What do you mean _private matter, _aru? You young nations shouldn't be so sneaky! Just say government meeting!"

"_I'm__** going**__ someplace private- but __**this**__ is government! Just listen!"_ It was strange to hear that kind of annoyed tone in Russia's voice. It wasn't his _'I'm going to make you one with Russia.'_ voice, or the _'Become one with Russia, da?'_ voice, more like his rarely used _'Holy shit, China the Germans are right outside Stalingrad PLEASE SEND HELP.'_ voice.

"I'm listening, aru." Setting Shinatty-chan down on the table in the apartment's small living room, China picked up the tea he'd poured for himself a few minutes ago before saying goodnight to his favourite city. He sipped the bitter brew calmly, unhappy with being made to feel serious again after such a short reprieve- even China's boss had been willing to give him time off after his return.

But China listened. And he listened closely. And then he made Russia repeat himself. And when he tried to make Russia repeat himself _again_ he was hung-up on, which was okay.

It was okay because China had already dropped his cup and let the ceramic shatter on the floor, spilling tea everywhere. He didn't even think about cleaning it up before he broke into a flat-out run for the apartment door, flinging it open and sprinting through the halls looking for the nearest exit. He didn't even grab Shinatty-chan before he left, he was too busy punching a new number into his phone.

"_JAPAN!_"

* * *

><p>"Heracles."<p>

"Hm?"

"My name. It's Heracles." Oh.

Japan looked up again at the sky, the two of them seated just outside on his porch, the sliding doors of Kiku's private home open despite the cooling air. The moon was high over head tonight, the quiet sounds of the garden soothing even with Greece's voice broaching this peculiar subject.

"You... did not have to tell me." Japan understood that he had given his human name to the world when he wrote it on the treaty. It was awkward to talk about, but he didn't necessarily mind. Nothing bad could really come from sharing human names, it was simply a convention that had been broken.

"I wanted to. I have wanted to." Tama, Japan's small black bobtail kitten, was resting in Greece's lap, his belly full of fresh tuna while he purred happily under the Mediterranean nation's warm hand. Japan was trying hard not to smile, but Tama's face was just too blissful and Greece- Heracles? He seemed just as pleased as the cat simply by providing that kind of bliss. It exemplified his personality so well...

"Thank you." Brushing his fingertips over Heracles' wrist, Kiku kept his eyes down when he felt his lover look up at him. They usually didn't say much to one another, it wasn't necessary, he just savoured the warmth of Greece's hand as it wrapped tenderly around his, lifting his arm as his palm was brought against the other man's lips. So warm, so kind... Loving, that was the perfect word.

"You're welcome." Words murmured against his skin, rumbling up from deep inside the Greek's chest like the purr radiating from the kitten in his lap.

"I feel better."

"I'm glad." No, Japan really was feeling better. He wasn't all the way better, certain things still upset him, but he was feeling better. He wanted to prove this to Greece so Japan stroked his lover's cheek and tried, very gently, to tilt that face closer to his...

And then his phone started ringing. Disappointing.

"Ah... excuse me." Greece didn't say anything as Japan removed his hand and gracefully stood up, his dark, traditional clothing rustling softly as he moved. Heracles remained in exactly the same half-leaning position on the veranda: his own way of telling Japan to come right back as soon as he was done and finish what he'd started.

_'Heracles, I like that name...'_ Smiling through the soft warmth tinging his cheeks, Japan quickly found the smart-phone he'd left on the table next to the teapot. He was thankful that it was not Korea calling, which would be annoying, or Hong Kong, which would indicate something bothersome, but rather China. But of course, seeing Yao's number only meant that Kiku didn't know whether the call would be bothersome _or_ annoying.

"Hai? I'm listening." Because nations didn't answer with their names when picking up calls. You never knew when a bureaucrat dialled the wrong number. He listened for several moments. "Oh..."

What? A few more moments.

"Yes."

No. He couldn't breathe.

"I understand."

No. He didn't understand.

"Arigato."

No. Take it back. He didn't want this.

Kiku hung up the phone and set it back on the table. He stood there for a few moments, or for many moments, he wasn't sure. He realized he wasn't actually thinking and resolved to be more productive in the future. Kiku also reminded himself very sharply that screaming would not accomplish anything, but he did not make a great show of trying to stop the tears when Heracles wrapped his arms around him from behind.

"Calm down..."

No... No. This wasn't_ real..._

"I... I need my uniform."

* * *

><p>The solution was simple: beer.<p>

It didn't matter what the problem was, the German solution was always the same: beer.

Lots of beer. Especially for West because East knew his brother was trying very hard to stay strong when he didn't have to anymore.

They'd come back to Berlin and the brothers had done what any self-respecting pair would after an experience like theirs: they'd stopped at the first beer hall and drank themselves sick. And when they got home they drank a bit more, and East wasn't satisfied until his brother was so hammered that he cried and swore and cursed and a hundred other things for his lost Italian friend. And the night just wasn't complete until West spewed out all of the emotion (and most of the beer) in their bathroom with East there laughing and waiting for his turn to be sick.

Beer was therapeutic that way: West told him everything- _everything,_ and when he woke up little Luddy was too damned exhausted and hung-over to be embarrassed about it. It probably helped that Gilbert was also too hung-over and queasy feeling to remember what his brother had even said. He'd caught the jist of things, but all the fragile-feeling-thingies had been lost in the haze where they belonged.

The next two days was just them running around Berlin. They saw all the sites they already knew and spent several hours back-to-back in the centre of the crowds, connected. Prussia led them to the exact spot where, in 1308, he'd first become aware of himself as the State of the Teutonic Order. The place he'd been when his name had changed from the Teutonic Order to the Duchy of Prussia in 1525, and it had changed again in 1701: from Duchy to Kingdom. It was the same eighteenth-century city where he'd met Old Fritz just a few years after that too. The same place where, after years and years of fighting with Holy Rome and Austria, Prussia had found the small blonde child who had grown into his little brother...

So Germany wasn't the only one to shed a lot of wussy tears and deal with the wishy-washy feelings.

They pushed and pulled and prodded one another to reach the site of the old Berlin Wall. It was a tourist attraction now, the old scar in the city slowly being built and painted and paved over as Berlin continued to live and thrive on both sides. But there were still places away from the tourists, the sections of wall standing trapped between two or more buildings that had been built up next to the old divide in order to erase the "death strip" which had dominated Prussia's side.

They came to a little street, a quiet and boring little street, and reached for each others hands.

They couldn't cross the line alone. Their people were recovering but the nation was still uneasy about that line. If they weren't actually near one another then Prussia could cross back and forth through the city however many times he wanted in a day, but if West was with him then East couldn't just walk over. And he knew it was the same for his brother, because Ludwig's eyes always looked so haunted whenever they clasped hands to step over the old wall. They'd repaved this street recently: there wasn't even a groove in the asphalt to show where the barrier had stood, but it was still there in memory.

It was a quiet street, so the brothers sat down on the line right next to each other in the middle of the road. Gilbert sat facing west and Ludwig was staring off into the east: they'd spent too long with their backs to the wall, staring in their respective directions. The brothers kept their elbows linked together as they sat on the cold concrete and Prussia pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. The EU wanted them to quit, but Germany still carried a lighter and the brothers shared a smoke in silence.

"It's me." Huh? Oh. Looking over his brother's shoulder, West had his cell phone out and held up to his ear. That was probably the buzzing sound East had half-heard a moment ago. Jeeze, couldn't the world leave them alone for a _couple_ days? "Oh, Greece? Hello... Why are you using Japan's phone?" Greece was calling from Japan's house? "Is that him? Put him on the line, I can- Prussia? Why didn't you call Prussia if you wanted to talk to-? Fine, fine! Here he is!"

West was annoyed and now East was curious, snickering at his brother as the phone was shoved in his direction in exchange for the cigarette, dirty German grumbling over West's lips. Their arms remained linked and Prussia lifted the device up to his ear, still smirking.

"Hey, the Amazing Prussia here. 'Sup, Greece?" It took a moment for voices to filter through, but once they did Prussia found himself nibbling the inside of his lip curiously. He could hear erratic Japanese in the background, a voice that sounded like Kiku's tumbling over itself in wild bursts. What the hell was going on over there? "Greece?"

"_You._" There he was, finally. "_Call France and Spain. Bring them to Geneva."_

"Geneva! What the fuck, guy? We just got home!" There was no way Prussia was leaving the country again, not for a good long while anyways- a few months at least! And if he went anywhere it certainly wouldn't be fucking Switzerland- he'd much rather see Hungary for that...

"_Well you left him behind._" Him? "_Who do you think?_"

"Hey." Gripping his brother's arm for a moment, Prussia's ass was starting to freeze on the pavement. He let Germany finish off the cigarette and the both of them stood up, Prussia taking the lead to get them up onto the side-walk and start heading back to the main transit artery running through the city. "What's going on? Put Honda on the line."

"_He can't talk."_ Well why not? "_Because you left him behind."_

"Him?" Fuck, Greece, this was no time to play with pronouns. What was he talking about? He stepped around someone going in the opposite direction, the foot-traffic increasing as the two of them turned onto one of the larger boulevards. Ludwig would have to hail a cab for them, Gilbert was busy trying to make sense of the Greek on the other end of the line.

"_**He-**__"_ Gilbert stopped walking. Stopped talking. Stopped thinking. He stopped not because of Greece's attitude but because of what he heard _Japan_ suddenly yelling in the background.

Italy-?

Gilbert hung up the phone, one hand over his mouth as the device clicked off. Greece wouldn't try calling back. He closed his eyes tight for a moment and-

"Brother?" Oh god, oh god this wasn't happening... "East, what's wrong? What did Greece say?"

Gilbert took a deep breath and turned sharply on his heel, facing his little brother who had been following behind him. Ludwig was wearing a long black coat on over his charcoal suit and slacks, his fringe down for once and giving him a boyish look: they'd been planning to visit a churchyard after seeing the line, hoping to grieve in a slightly healthier way before getting hammered again tonight. Beer was the answer to everything.

"West." Except maybe this. "West I want you to focus for me."

"I should be saying the same thing to you: what's the matter?" Shit, shit, shit.

"Total population!"

"_What?_"

"Eighty million, right? Something like that? Total German population!" West was looking at him like he was _insane_...

"...Eighty-one point eight, yes. East?"

"_Deutschland! Deutschland über alles! Über alles in der Welt! Wenn es stets zu Schutz und Trutze-"_

"_WHY ARE YOU SINGING?_" Why was he singing the national anthem on a street in Berlin? Simple!

"Because I need Germany!" West probably would have walked away if Prussia hadn't felt so scared all of the sudden. He knew his brother could sense it, and that was why West stayed right where he was despite the curious glances being sent their way. "I don't want Ludwig Beilschmidt, I want the Federal Republic of Germany! So sing the anthem with me, damn it!" Because if he told Ludwig something only Germany could hear, then he'd cripple both the man and the nation.

"This is serious, isn't it?" Ja, ja this was serious...

"Just... Just please be ready for it..." As ready as West could be...

* * *

><p>Spain was freaking out, just not as badly as the little Italian sitting in France's living room.<p>

"PLEASE! HELP! YOU! CAN'T! LEAVE! HIM! VE! NE! ZIA! NO! PLEAAAAASE!-!"

"Seborga! _S'il vous plait-_ calm down!"

"NOO! I DON'T WANT TO BE NORTH ITALY I DON'T I DON'T DON'T MAKE ME DO IT _HEEEEELP!_"

Spain had gone home to Madrid for a few days, but his feet had begun to itch again almost as soon as he'd arrived. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo had only been through one loop, he'd only died the one time, and as difficult as that had been... it felt more like a dream to him now than a reality. He simply didn't hurt the same way the others did.

So he'd skipped across one border to see France. Perhaps if Romano had answered his phone, any of his phones- at his office, at his house in Naples, on his cell, at his house in Rome, even in Veneziano's old apartment -then Spain might have headed to South Italy instead. But he wasn't answering and everyone seemed to think leaving Romano alone would be better than forcing him to talk. Spain was skeptical, but that was just another reason to visit France: his friend could give him advice, and then if he had to then Italy was right _there_ for him to see...

France's Parisian estate was a quaint little house beyond the technical limits of the city surrounded by roses, grape vines, a large bed of iris flowers, and other charming country features that made his guests feel welcome. Spain always knew France was in residence if he could smell something cooking when he approached the front door, so the two of them had been sitting in the blonde's sunny drawing room munching on fresh baguette, cheese and a sample of this year's wine.

And then Seborga showed up.

To be completely honest, Spain consistently forgot about Seborga's very existence every time the third Italy Brother was out of his sight for more than a few hours. Romano never mentioned him because Seborga was a Northern oddity, but even North Italy had usually just treated their little brother the way one would a pet fish: cute, but not of any great consequence.

Seborga looked a lot like his brothers, he was so cute! A bit shorter- like how Romano had been back in the eighteenth century. His hair was lighter than Veneziano's and his complexion was just a bit darker- but not as dark as Romano's. And his eyes? They were more blue than grey when he deigned to open them: but now was not one of those times.

"Stop! _Stop!_ Enough!" It wasn't like France to get frustrated with someone who was otherwise so cute, but Seborga was doing a good job of getting on the blonde's nerves. "Why are you here?"

"Napoli sent me!" Na-who? "_Naples!_" Oh, he meant Romano... Wait!

"Romano? Why is he-" Spain tried to cut in, but Seborga cut him off.

"_Waaaah! We're so mad at you guys!"_ Despite the collective term, Seborga was still clinging to France's shirt like it was the only thing keeping him upright, the Italian hanging from his hands with his knees on France's carpet. "B-But _mon frère,_ you have to help Romano! You have to stop that Swiss meanie from doing something really really bad and terrible! _S'il vous plaît_ I'm BEGGING you!" Huh, Seborga was part French, Spain felt like he should have known this already but it still came as a surprise.

"Agh, Switzerland seems to be getting in a lot of fights lately..." France was popular today. Spain knew he wasn't being much help but when his friend's phone started going off in his pocket the Parisian looked like he was quickly coming up on his limit. A quick check confirmed: "I don't know this number" huh? Really? "Spain, _s'il vous plaît?_" France's tone was tense and dismissive, but Spain didn't take offence to it as the touch-phone was tossed his way. France's phone was robed in his tricouleur flag, Spain amused by this detail as he answered the call. "_Et tu,_ stop this silly crying and tell me what's going on!"

"_Hola~ _Say, who is this?" There was quiet on the other end, but it was broken by a very shy, shaky voice.

"_I-Is Mr. Fra- Francis there?_" That accent, it sounded Germanic. Did Germany or Prussia have a sister? "_Is this... Mr. Spain?_" Mister? Well she got his nation name right at least, and the more she spoke the more Antonio was reminded of someone. She wasn't a bureaucrat, he knew that much.

"_Si. _But France is right here if you need him-? Who is this?"

"_I-It's me...?" _Err... "_L-Liechtenstein._" Wait, Switzerland's little sister? And here was Romano's little brother with them already, this didn't look good... _"I can tell you too, right? I... I guess, but-"_ Spain refrained from saying anything as he listened, or rather, as he _tried_ to listen over the very fast, very loud French flying behind him:

"_C'est ne pas vrai!"_

"_Oui il est! Je peux le sentir! Je sais qu'il est toujours vivant!"_

"_NON!"_

"Liechtenstein? _Mi querida,_ say that again I couldn't hear you." There was shouting surrounding Spain, but as he closed his eyes and increased the volume on the phone- was she crying?

"_H-he's still alive, Mr. Spain. A-And now Mr. Italy's brother is getting in a fight with my big brother, trying to get him back- I shouldn't have been listening when Father Vatican came but I didn't go up to my room like Big Brother said, I heard everything."_ Heard every what? Who was still-? "_He's locked __Father Vatican upstairs and says he'll hurt him if South Italy crosses the border without permission, please, please talk to them- you and Mr. France, you-"_

Umm... Hang on. What?

"They're doing _WHAT?_" Antonio was surprised by the volume of his own voice, but the heat that exploded in his chest made it worth it. He threw down a black Latin curse as the Spaniard heard the shouting behind him die down, his hands clenching the phone tightly as he found himself glaring at the wall like he could burn through it. "Romano- _Switzerland!-?_"

"_I-I'm sorry! I shouldn't have said anything!"_ The poor girl was crying openly now, but Spain had to wrestle with the anger in his gut to keep from shouting back at her.

"No, don't be sorry. You did the right thing. Where is Switzerland now and why the _he-_ _why_ is Romano doing this?" Liechtenstein was already speaking over him, like she was too scared to stop talking:

"_-back to life when he went back in time, I was dead and he brought me back. Now the monster keeps bringing **him** back and hurting him, over and over again. Did the others know he wasn't dead? Did they know he'd be brought back after they left? Mr. Prussia said he was carved in two when they escaped, they saw the pieces of him on the ground but-"_

"Calm down." The words were as much for the little nation on the phone as they were for Spain's own nerves. He didn't want to hear the rest of it, the picture was clear enough already in his mind: Romano had every reason to be upset, and Switzerland was probably smart to take a hostage like the Vatican... Or stupid, depending on the Holy See's temper. "Who else knows about this, Lichtenstein?"

"_M-Mr. Russia..?"_ Right. Right, okay. Behind him Spain could hear France's voice low and murmuring something, too upset to turn around and look at his friend right now as he focused on Switzerland's sister instead.

"Okay... Okay I'm going to hang up now, but I don't want you to panic, _si?_ I'm going to call your brother, and Big Brother France is going to call some of his friends too, okay? No one is going to get hurt, _poco uno, _so why don't you go sit with papa if you're allowed? It's okay, dry your tears and let us take care of everything, alright?"

"_Please don't hurt Switzerland-"_

"Not if I don't have to, _mi querida._" Spain's phone started buzzing in his pocket and the Romance Nation pulled it out just in time to see Switzerland's flag flash across the screen. "He's calling me, Liechtenstein, so just calm down and everything will be alright. Okay? _Adios_ for now." Listening to the little nation sniffle and whimper good bye into the phone on her end, Spain terminated the call and looked down at the other number.

He handed France's phone over to Seborga, the Italian standing tear-fully next to France where the blond had collapsed onto his couch, head down between his knees and hands tangled in his own hair. He was either sobbing or bottling up a scream as Spain turned away again and answered the incoming call.

"_Hola. _What perfect timing you have, Swiss bastard..." This should be good.

* * *

><p><em>'He's not coming...<em>' It was a disappointing thought. _'I know this is the right place, we chose the same spot every time.'_ Canada's frustration was quick to well up and replace the disappointment, the blond shutting his eyes and flinching away from the cold wind as he tried to pull his temper back down where it belonged. It was hard. It didn't work. He was upset and it was probably better to just accept it.

He'd made a promise, but he'd based it on what, exactly? A shy glance in one loop? A desperate fit in another? Russia- Ivan? No, Russia. Russia had never _said_ anything to him, and Canada had kept mum on the subject too. They'd never confronted each other, and the closest they _might_ have come to it was when he'd pointed a gun at Ivan back in Bern. This was a promise based off strange memories of Russia standing consistently closer to him as things carried on, of Canada speaking up in the Russian's defence more and more as they became confused. It was his willingness to trust Ivan even after strange things had started happening with his phone in the final loop, in was in the way they'd helped each other after losing their entire families to the monsters both in and outside the walls of the mansion.

_'I'm here, he's not. Russia is not coming.'_ Haa... What would Alfred think of Matthew told him how he'd spent the last sixteen hours? It shouldn't have hurt this much but Matthew just closed his eyes tight behind the yellow plastic protecting his face, pursing his lips under the white and red scarf tied over his nose and mouth, tempted to strip the covering away and letting the arctic wind bite his face, but that was just his temper talking. He'd been stupid for coming out here, but that was no excuse to hurt himself.

He was stupid, gullible, naive Canada, but he wasn't keen on frostbite. The least he could do for himself was get inside the tent he'd brought and warm up a little. He could rest a bit before going home, he could wait for the incoming storm to blow itself out across the tundra, his preparations already made with the snowmobile wrapped tight under an orange tarp and Kumajiro buried comfortably under the snow and ice for a good long nap. Getting out of the cold would do him some good.

Zipping up the bright orange door, the spurned nation muttered Inuktitut curses under his breath as he stripped off the protective gear, dropping the rifle off his back before resolving to keep the parka on. There was a small heater in the middle of the square nylon box he was hiding in, the proper attachments set out and ready for him to heat up a small meal for himself. He sucked on a maple candy waiting for the bacon and hash to cook all the way through: you could eat pretty much anything up this far north so long as you were willing to carry it, and he'd sort of brought more than he'd need.

_'Idiot...'_ He left the pan for washing later and laid down on top of his sleeping bag, the insulated material providing minimal protection from the ice supporting the tent. He should just get some rest and get back down south as soon as possible, he didn't have to go all the way to the border, but spending some time in Iqaluit would be much better than moping around up here... The problem was that despite the hours he'd been awake and the physical stress of getting up this far north, Canada didn't have much luck convincing himself to close his eyes and sleep. He forced himself not to toss and turn restlessly, but that was about all he accomplished.

His temper wouldn't settle down, it was like the wind bombarding his tent. The north pole- what a stupid place to meet! His boss and Russia's were always getting into arguments about the north! It must of been a tease and a joke from the very beginning, even that time when Ivan had been all- y'know! _Dying!_

The wind was really picking up out there, maybe he should go call Kumajimo inside...? But the polar bear was pushy and would want inside the sleeping bag if Canada invited him into the tent, and that would just annoy the nation right now. Let him sleep outside, he was made for this kind of cold anyways; they both were.

His eyes weren't closing but his mind was wandering, which was half the battle. The wind was sort of soothing once he stopped thinking about it so much, a constant whistling outside that didn't hurt the ears and calmed to a low drone as he lay there. He could forget he was angry if he just stopped thinking for a bit, it'd help him- what was that?

Reaching down for the rifle next to him on the tent floor, Canada's hand had only just gripped the body of the weapon when the zipper holding the tent door shut abruptly wheezed open. The sound startled him because it didn't belong, the Canadian sitting up in a flash with the gun half-

"R-Russia?" Oh please don't let it be a human, he hadn't meant to say that name! "C-Close the door!"

"Da, da, just let me get in first..." That voice, the subtle curse and the way his temper and gloves didn't interfere with the troublesome task of sealing the tent's door behind him. There were actually too: the bright orange fly that was taking most of the abuse and created a wind-shield for the main door, and that second threshhold that led in to where Matthew and the heater were both sitting. He'd probably heard the first door opening while he was laying there, that was why he... Oh, who really cared about all of that?

Russia was bundled up properly for the cold temperatures outside, smothered inside heavy black pants and a matching jacket. He pulled the black fur cap off his head and ran a gloved hand back through his pale hair quickly, bits of ice falling and melting on the canvas floor. Canada kept watching for a moment before he quickly set the gun back down, embarrassed. He obviously wasn't going to need it right now... There was also no way he was going to go back to laying down flat on his back again either. He'd been convinced, he'd been certain in every way that this had all been a mistake, but now-?

"I knew you would be here." Now he was here and Canada's thoughts slowed as Russia spoke. It was awkward to sit there dumbly with nothing to do: Matthew had no excuse not to look at the other nation as he spoke, but he wanted one. "But I can't stay." Matthew deeply, _deeply_ regretted the fact that he didn't at least have a book or some maps out to occupy himself, something to hide the sudden disappointment he knew had just slapped him in the face. Ivan had come all this way just to leave?

_'But he did come...'_ Matthew was probably misreading things.

"...I guess you could have radioed ahead." It was the best he could come up with.

"You have a radio?" Of course he did, Canada wasn't new to arctic excursions and a long-distance radio was a necessity when you were this far from civilization.

He didn't say that though, because this was the part where Russia would say _'Oh! I guess I didn't have to come all the way out here then. How silly of me!'_ and make Canada feel like a dependant idiot.

"I guess it doesn't matter." He wasn't sure what Russia meant by that, but Canada just sat with his hands in his lap and tried to think of something else to do with himself. He was still content from his earlier meal and not feeling particularly hospitable at the moment: he didn't want to offer Russia anything. "I could have told you sooner over radio, but it would also have sent the wrong message, you know?" No, Canada didn't know...

"I'm sorry, but, could you please just tell me what you mean?" Told him what sooner? Sent what wrong message? Canada kept his eyes focused where they were on the opposite side of the tent, doing his best not to sound too upset.

"Oh. Well, you see apparently North Italy is still trapped inside the mansion." That comment took about five seconds to register, but by the time Matthew turned his head to stare at Ivan the Russian was already chirping away. "So South Italy is preparing to go and destroy it with a tactical air-strike tomorrow, but since Switzerland is a whiny bitch the planes will probably be shot down and then a great big war will start between the two of them. I've already agreed to help the Italians."

Matthew's head started spinning.

"The banks..."

"Yes, we're all going to get very sick once Switzerland takes advantage of his financial connections. I'm sure England or France will be made to side with him by their bosses, but I'm not sure what Germany will do. I think it depends on how hard it is to destroy the mansion. If it is very easy then he will make them stop fighting, but if it takes more than a few weeks he will probably join on Italy's side."

"This isn't a joke, Russia." Ivan had that same childish look on his face that he always did whenever there was fighting at hand, it was a little unnerving to be honest. "Is war a given? There's absolutely no alternative? What about everyone else?" And why was Russia picking on Switzerland again? Jeeze, one little upset in a time loop that was more like a dream or a memory and suddenly Russia couldn't leave the smaller nation alone...

"I told China, so I'm sure he's spread the word around to the others by now. I don't know about your brother but I was just hoping I would find you here where we agreed to meet." Hoping. Hope was not the same as an expectation. Why did that make him feel better? "But you see things are very tense in Europe right now, so I have to head back much sooner than I was planning to. I believe an Emergency UN meeting will be called but I'm not sure where." Probably Vienna, the Hague, or Geneva, but the last one on the list seemed unlikely. New York was a favourite location of the UN but no one would want to jump on a plane to America when there was a fight brewing in south and central Europe...

"Do you have transport in the area?" Canada asked, closing his eyes and rubbing his face with one hand, internalizing everything he'd been told and slowly beginning to work through it. So many details, so little time, this was not going to be easy. Russia didn't sound like he understood the question with his answer:

"I arrived on a snowmobile."

"From Moscow?" People like them could travel ridiculously fast, it wasn't completely impossible that a plane landing on the ice cap had dropped Ivan off and let him travel the rest of the way himself, but it would be inconvenient. "Ivan I'm not quizzing you, if you don't have a plane in the area then I'll just call one of mine." And with that said Canada stood as tall as he could in the low tent and crossed over to the large hiking pack he'd brought with him, rifling around in one of the exterior pockets until he found the large radio he'd already mentioned. He didn't detach the entire thing, just the remote attachment before he came back down to sit on the sleeping bag again.

He didn't mean to come down quite so close to Russia, but refused to shuffle away once it was done.

"Your military can extract you from out here?" He sounded surprised! "Well _you know._America is always saying how your army-"

"Alfred's always forgetting that the Canadian military got to New Orleans days before his Katrina relief came through. He is _not_ an authority on my armed forces." Pressing the water-tight button on the radio, Canada brought the device up to his mouth and spoke clearly into the grooved front. A simple hello followed by a request for contact: once in English, then again in French. He was considering a third go in Inuktitut when he heard a soft laugh from the man next to him and felt the warmth of Ivan's breath touch his cheek.

"This is why I like you so much, _Matvey_." Ahh- he hadn't noticed Russia moving closer to him, he really really hadn't, but that just seemed to be the way things worked out most of the time: Canada wasn't looking for him, and then suddenly Russia was there. "So much more rewarding than a radio transmission."

"W-what is?" Ivan's hand was behind him on the sleeping bag, and the two of them were close- but not touching in any way. Matthew found that he didn't really mind all that much, but he was watching that smile on the Russian's face in case it suddenly changed or did something.

"Watching you never panic." O-Oh? "If I had just called you on the radio then it would be dead air between us, meaning you were either acting exactly like this or panicking wildly out on the tundra."

"Panicking wouldn't do any good-"

"But that's what everyone else is doing." He missed the moment where Russia pulled off his glove, but the Canadian fought to keep his eyes from closing as Ivan's fingers slowly brushed a lock of his blond hair back behind his ear, fingertips grazing his cheek and jaw softly. It was an intimate gesture... "It takes so much to make you angry, or even all that upset... Don't you _care_ about Italy?"

"Freaking doesn't prove you care." Matthew retorted, but he didn't shy away from Ivan with the words. "And of course I'm upset, but so are-"

"_Mattie!"_ Canada jumped as the voice shrieked at him- not Russia's voice, but America's through the radio. The former USSR looked surprised but not upset by the interruption, the Canadian quickly lifting the half-forgotten radio up again so he could- "_Mattie where are you? This is not time to go playing around at the north pole! Matthew Williams!"_ Subtle, Alfred, real subtle.

"I can hear you, Alfred. You're looking for me?" He didn't want to ask why as he spoke into the radio, curious about why his brother was flying within range of him to begin with. Either Alfred was being stupid about Northern Sovereignty again or-

"_Dude there's a serious UN meeting happening! You've totally gotta come!" _Or that.

"We were just discussing that." Russia frowned immediately, but Canada decided not to correct the mistake. Alfred would only react badly to Ivan's presence here if he was too simple to recognize that there were more important things to worry about in Europe... which meant- "Are you listening? Our exact co-ordinates are..."

"_We? What we?"_ Focus, Alfred. "..._Dude! Why're you __**that**__ far north?-! It's too cold!"_ No such thing!

"Are you going to pick us up or not?"

"_I'm about forty minutes out, bro. Who's this __**we?**__"_

That settled their transportation problem and Canada set the radio down next to him without answering. Forty minutes was enough time to pack up the small camp he'd pitched, but he wasn't sure he wanted to go through the hassle: this was all his stuff, not his government's, and it would probably still be here when things were over. If he took anything it would be his bag or the snowmobile, but it all depended on what kind of plane Alfred was flying...

"So your military could extract you, but you prefer to let America do it?" Ivan asked, his deep voice playing with the words. Matthew tried not to sigh as he looked at the Russian again.

"It's his budget. I can't tell him how to spend his money." Ivan looked... tired. He had a full face, almost childishly round, so it made his exhaustion stand out when his cheekbones seemed so pronounced, his violet eyes weak and almost unfocused. He was sitting right next to Matthew, but Russia was very, very far away...

He didn't like that.

"It'll be okay." Ivan's focus came back when Matthew placed his hand against the Russian's face, cradling his cheek as the other nation noticeably leaned into the touch. He turned so he was facing Ivan properly, the two of them close enough that the space between them was filled with the volume of their jackets: they weren't touching, but it was close. Ivan's eyes drooped slightly, a very rare moment of weakness showing through; like the tears after their final escape, like the confession during the final loop...

"...We left him behind, _Matvey_." Ivan breathed the quiet words against his fingers, Matthew brushing his thumb over Russia's lips because he wanted to touch them.

"We'll get him back, Ivan."

* * *

><p>"And then you just-<em> Legilimens!<em>" Huh.

_'And how did you come up with this, exactly?'_ Thinking the words slowly, Norway looked down at the intricate glyph that had painted itself beneath his feet, the wide body of his spell-book balanced on his arm, his other hand on his hip as he scuffed at the lines and watched them refuse to clear away. His magic senses felt saturated with power, his heart beating raw life energy through his body, his insides beginning to burn from it- this was a serious high...

"Norge."

_'A lot of trial and error, let me tell you.'_ England sounded smug in Norway's head, but the Nordic was willing to overlook his host's pride this time. He'd rather deal with attitude than nudge aside the ill-prepare defences England had set up in his mind, a few shoddy mental curtains closed shut over a lot of things Norway was completely prepared to ignore right now. He wasn't here to be a shoulder for England to cry on, he was here to pick up a new technique for his spell book...

"_Norge..._"

_'You said this taps into personal potential, right? So right now we're not sharing National power, like in a coalition, but just-_"

"Norge! I'm bored!" Norway closed his eyes slowly, ignoring the blond sitting dejectedly at the basement steps. He'd _told_ Denmark he didn't have to come, but had he listened? No. "You guys aren't even talking anymore! This is so boring!" Turning to look at England again, Norway pursed his lips tightly as he communicated something to the other sorcerer:

_'If we don't break this down, I might hurt him.'_

"Mm, hey, Norge!"

_'I think he'd survive it.'_

"Norge!"

England was wearing his wizarding robes over the normal clothes he'd been wearing when Norway and Denmark arrived, the three of them down in the Englishman's basement where the stone walls were thick and sturdy enough to support this kind of magic. This wasn't his London house, but rather his country estate, a short train and car ride from his capitol.

"_Norge!_"

_'No really, Norway I think he'd be fine afterwards. Would you like to try?'_

The Norwegian drummed his fingers on the book in front of him, watching the slight curve of England's lips as his host flipped casually through his own spell book, looking for nothing in particular on the pages.

"_Norwaaaaay!_"

Oh what the hell. Denmark owed him for more than a few things.

Plucking the air for the strands of magic woven through the world around them, Norway twisted his hand and felt the immediate rush of two distinct mystical entities pour through him and combine. A partnership of souls that had nothing to do with affection allowed England's magic to submit to him in one moment, and follow the direction of his hand in Denmark's direction in the next.

"_Gyaaah!"_

_'Excellent technique, Norway.'_ England seemed amused as chains of gold and blue formed and snagged the annoying Dane by his elbows and waist, hoisting Denmark up into the air and suspending him by a complex web of magic. There were lots of things he could have done instead- a noose, an ankle bond, a simple blast of power to knock his partner out against the wall, Denmark should have been thankful for such light handling. Instead, the Dane spluttered angrily and thrashed for a few moments, his feet several inches off the ground while Norway watched and admired his handiwork. He power still coursing through his system was almost addictive, and he was already toying with the idea of-

"O-Oh, I hadn't know that about you..." England's comment made him snap out of it, which was as disappointing as it was embarrassing. Right, shared head-space... "But! At least that will teach you not to interrupt when we're busy, won't it, Denmark?"

"But his phone keeps going off! _Norge!_" Flail, flail, flail went the annoying Dane, but Norway was actually listening to him now and noticed the electronic clutched in Denmark's hand. Lifting his own up, he gave a simple command:

"Give it."

"Let me go first!"

"_Give it._" Germany wasn't the only one who knew how to train a dog.

_'Did you just call him a Great Dane? I don't think I like sharing thoughts with you...'_

_'I thought you grew out of that Victorian funk of yours?'_ England just grumbled something intelligible and walled off his thoughts a little bit to prevent so much overlap. Internally, Norway watched how he did it and took a few pointers, trying his hand at closing those curtains a bit tighter. It was a work in progress, but by the end of it Norway was able to get his way with Denmark without flustering their host any more than he had to.

"Canada?" Who...? Oh, right, Canada. Norway didn't know who it was until after he answered; the display only telling him that it was a secure line from Oslo, specifically one meant for calls from NATO countries. The fact that it was almost midnight didn't seem to effect anything. "Speak up."

It was next to impossible to hear Canada's voice over the incredible _noise_ in the background, Norway flicking a lock of his pale hair out of his face before he gestured slowly for the chains holding Denmark to lower the other nation back down to the floor. The idiot might have tried saying something to him, but the Norwegian averted his eyes so he wouldn't have to see it.

"Why were you at the north pole?" _It's mine it's mine it's mine..._

_'I'll never understand why you two fight over the north so much...'_ England didn't have to understand, he just had to be quiet while Norway listened. So America and Canada were flying down from the pole and they were crossing into Norwegian airspace... with Russia?

"Fine. Permission granted." Stupid Russia. Not as stupid as Sweden and Denmark, but stupid none-the-less. Now what was all this..? Oh? "He's here." He listened a bit more, frowning and hating phones for needing so many words. "No, I'm in Kent." England was not in Oslo, but it might not have been a bad idea. Unfortunately, Canada was armed with bad news.

"Oh." Not bad for Norway per-say, but that was only until Canada continued explaining. "That's bad." Yeah... this was going to suck. "Okay." Why was everyone headed to Geneva? Fine, fine, if that's what the world wanted- oh, it was what _Switzerland_ wanted? "Actually no, I'm with the Swiss." His boss would make him go that way anyways, but hopefully if it came to that the other Nordics would come with him. "Don't argue, it's stupid." Italian's weren't the brightest: you didn't attack a neutral power and expect to get away with it so there was no point trying to defend him. "Sure. See you then."

"What was all that about?" England asked, and Norway kept his eyes focused on the stone wall in front of him as he hung-up the phone, sliding the device open and closed a few times as he ran his thumb over the keyboard. "Norway?"

"What's up in Geneva, Norge?" He didn't look at either of them, but that was what kept the Dane from jumping up and down like a puppy trying to get his attention. If he looked at Denmark then everything was fine, if he refused then everything was not.

"Den, go and get the others from upstairs." The others being England's brothers. Ireland had said something about going out but he knew Wales and Scotland were still in the house watching a rugby game on the TV- Ireland had refused because his rival's team was set to win the match. "Call Ice and them too, tell them to get to Geneva." Why was Norway always the one delegating? Finland was so much better at it, he didn't find it annoying having to tell people what to do.

"Um. Sure, okay. No problem." Denmark didn't seem too sure of the order, but he had one foot on the stairs as Norway turned to face England now. The wizard looked curious but otherwise calm.

"Denmark-" He called the Dane back again, dropping his eyes from England's green ones as he pushed aside the mental curtain hanging between the two of them. The Nisse hovering in the corner roused itself as a frigid wind blew from the Sorcerer's mind into the Wizard's, England gasping suddenly as his weak defences were pulled away and the information was delivered to him in full, concise detail.

There were a lot of bodies hiding behind those curtains; bloody bomber jackets and broken glasses, shredded parkas and scattered rose petals, too many rusty martyr's nails for Norway to count, and a darkness so thick and heavy it threatened to swallow them both before the Sorcerer pulled back and broke the spell between them, letting England deal with the mess on his own.

When Norway spoke it was in simple Danish so his partner would understand:

_"Tell Scandinavia to mobilize, we could be at war by tomorrow."_

England closed his eyes and started screaming.

* * *

><p>Push the piano.<p>

This time, like every other time, Feliciano woke up back in the music room. His arm was bleeding freely but he didn't need the pain to tell him when and where he was. His white flag was already in stained tatters so he used his sore, stiff right hand to wrap a messy tourniquet for himself, tightening it with his teeth. The key was in the front door, but instead of worrying about that he let his blurry eyes gaze at the white around him.

_'Push the piano..?'_

It was the strangest thought he'd had in a long time, but as he listened for the sound of footsteps Feliciano looked away from the blood-smeared floor and focused on the white instrument dominating the chamber. Okay, maybe don't push the piano, but he could manage the bench, right?

It was the strangest thought he'd had in a long time, but the windows in this room were up so high that the bench almost wasn't enough height for him to reach the sill. He couldn't see outside and his body felt weak from old pains and scars, but Feliciano made himself stand there with his better hand holding the sill carefully, keeping him upright.

The blood crusting his uniform had all dried a long time ago, except for the splashes down his leg from the last time. Balancing carefully, he placed his better hand against his thigh, pressed until his palm was as heavy with blood as he could make it, and then reached up on his toes to press his hand against the window. It wouldn't open, but he couldn't help but wonder if-

_Rattatata-_

That...

_Tata-rattatata-_

He almost fell, that's how stunned he was by the sound and the force that connected with the window. Connected from the _other_ side, although it failed to break through. You couldn't shoot out the glass in this place, Feliciano couldn't remember how he knew that, but it was true. White circles blossomed on the exterior side of the window and he reflexively pulled his hand away, watching and listening as the glass was peppered with gunfire. He waited for as long as he could stand, holding his breath for any other signs of movement outside. Any other signs of life.

Jumping off the bench he made short work of his next task: finding and smashing the hell out of the small clock resting on the bookshelf. There was no flood of memories and he couldn't remember why that would have happened anyways, but the footsteps slowly drumming down the hall towards him were silenced.

Holy Rome didn't like it when his clocks were smashed, but he usually let Feliciano have a few more minutes to himself after the first one broke. If he broke any more then he would be in trouble...

It was hard to stand, his head was swimming with nausea as something cold pooled in his stomach, something warm settling over his shoulders. He had to slump down in the corner of the room for a few moments, panting softly and trying to convince himself that there was no such thing as hope, that nothing was really all that different now than from last time, or the time before that, or on and on back through the loops...

But he pulled out his cellphone, and despite the futility of it as the device powered up, he prayed...

* * *

><p>Damn fucking bend in the damn fucking shitty road. Romano just kept swearing as he stared through the scope mounted on top of his rifle, hating the trees that obscured entire wings on the house one kilometre away, cursing whatever shit-for-brains engineer had designed the road that wound down on a constant slant to the building. Of course his fucking brother would have to run up-fucking-hill!<p>

If he saw movement, he shot it, bitter Italian slipping off his tongue every time he had the chance to squeeze the cold trigger. Didn't matter if it was something flashing between the trees, rustling in the tall grass, or ghosting back and forth through the distant windows: if it moved, it was dead.

He was down on his belly on the ground, legs behind him and the assault rifle set up on a pair of legs: it kept the weapon steady for long-range shots like this. Crouching with the gun against your shoulder looked cool n'all but Romano wasn't much of a sniper, and he wasn't fucking calm enough to manage his breathing and heart rate trying to keep the weapon steady. The radio attached to his shoulder kept crackling every few seconds; the far-off Italian voices running checks and protocols in Istrana. The chatter didn't distract him, it kept him focused.

He wasn't doing this all on his fucking own...

When Romano's cell went off in his pocket he nearly freaked on the device, jumping and skewing his next shot before he rolled and pulled the thing out of his vest. If it was Spain he was gonna fucking ignore-

He... Okay... Fuck...

"Where's the clock?" He asked, holding the phone to his ear and telling himself to not damn well break it by holding on too hard. "Well? Where the fuck is it? Fifth floor? Annex? Basement?"

He could hear breathing, panting- good god his brother was _breathing..._

"Ve- Veneziano don't give me this fucking emotional shit right now!"

Through the phone he heard a whisper of a laugh; not that scary, wrong, inhumane laugh from the memories, but his brother's. It was the way Veneziano laughed when he knew he was about to cry.

"_F...First floor..."_ First floor, he'd radio that in as soon as he could then. "_P-please don't hang u-_"

"I'm not going to fucking hang up on you, you asshole!" Shouting because he felt more like crying, Romano hit the speaker button on his phone and cradled the device in the palm of his hand, looking down at the blank screen and watching the numbers tick by, recording the length of the call. If the reception died he'd fucking shoot the thing to shit! "Feliciano, listen to me! Are you listening?"

"_Lovino..._"

"This is the last time!" No more loops, no more tries, no do-overs, no-fucking-nothing! "You have exactly sixty-five minutes before that mansion is nothing but fucking ashes, _capicé?_ Either you leave with me or you leave in a fucking pine box! I can't help you until you get out the front door- but then _I will help you! _So don't you fucking stop running! I don't care who you think you see- that potato bastard, the Spanish bastard, the fucking Yankee- I don't care! It could be Nonno Roma himself standing in front of you trying to get your attention: you _fucking run away _because _it's not him!_"

"_It's not him..._" Three little words that Romano knew meant so much to his little brother right now. He heard a sniffle break through the phone and desperately wished he could do more than just _talk_. _"...Fratello."_

"What?"

"_I...I can hear you crying..." Bastard..._

"Then get out here already..."

* * *

><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

**French: **little things "Please", "my brother", "And you!" followed by: "It's not true!", "Yes it is! I can feel it! I know he's still alive!"

**Spanish: **"Hello" , "Yes", "My dear", "Little one",

**So much trouble with this chapter oh my goooood. It was more Canada's fault than anything but oh em geeeee that was annoying. I can't believe this thing is twenty pages long! **Added Liechtenstein to the beginning, and the Itabros at the end of the chapter were originally the opening bit to 18. **Next chapter is almost done and, like this one, will go up when it's finished (by this weekend?). After that there's only one more, and all three final chapters take their titles from the closing lines of the Italian National Anthem; "Stringiamci a coorte" translates roughly as "Let us join together/in a cohort".******

**There were spelling and grammatical errors to be sure, but I have a paper I seriously need to get done today and the longer I sat on this chapter the more it was driving me insane. I'll upload a clean version either tonight or tomorrow (Wednesday), and probably fight with the time-line s'more so things feel like they're happening over a thirty-six hour period. Seriously I need to get this paper _done_ right now, not worry about my edits...**

* * *

><p><strong>Don't Mess With Me, Glory, Rest Calm, Utopia, The Chosen Ones, We're Empty, Bad Apple English Dub, Scorpion Fire, German National Anthem, Italian National Anthem, "This is Where I Fall" HetaOni ST.<strong>


	17. Siam Pronti Alla Morte

**The Chosen Ones, Lost in Hopelessness, God of Melodicspeedmetal, New Way to Bleed, Scorpion Fire, Dark Marukaite Chikyuu, Hero (Skillet), and Undying Love (Recommended by Keliathewolf).**

**This chapter shifts from my usual limited narrator to a full-on omniscient voice, because it's just too damned hard to write a chapter like this from only one or two characters. The present tense is just an effect of Full Omniscience- I just can't make it work in past-tense. I make up for earlier page-break spam with no page breaks at all!**

**I did my best to make the last part as clear as I could, but at the same time a breakdown in communication is incredibly hard to write using radios. This would be so much easier if I was an audio-visual artist instead...**

**Apparently the ItaBros maintain one of the largest air-forces in the EU after Britain and France. Also how the hell did I not notice the typo in "Libya" for three months?**

**The title translates as: **"We are ready to die."** from the Italian Anthem. Don't worry, this chapter isn't some boring UN meeting!**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

Siam Pronti Alla Morte

The radio crackles as the engines begin to roar to life, dials twisting under trained fingers as switches are flipped and lights begin to flicker on and off, gauges filling properly as a helmet and mask are fitted comfortably over the pilot's head. The wind is in their favour today and as the Italian fighter jet revs up, the pilot, a veteran of the Arab Spring in Libya, listens to the voices feeding into his ears.

"_Italia 1 you are clear for take off. Italia 2 please stand by."_

A male voice breaks through under the operator's, this one more familiar to the pilot as he flexes his hands inside his gloves and settles down in his seat, comfortable and ready.

"_The clouds over the target have not burned away, they should by the time you get there but be prepared for low visibility on your approach." _Good to know. The pilot of Italia 2 watches his friend roar into the sky and off, already aware that Italia 1 will circle once around the city before the two of them head out together. Looking out onto the tarmac, he knows his face can't be seen by the ground personnel thanks to his mask and goggles, but gives a cheerful thumbs up from the cockpit before the final few diagnostics are finished up. He hears the technician one more time from the base compound:

"_Italia 2 you are clear for take off. Good luck, gentlemen: make Italy proud."_

The only problem with that statement is that, several hundred miles away, South Italy doesn't care about feeling proud right now, he just cares that according to his watch his airstrike is on its way. It means there's no going back on his promise.

"Run, damn it!" Romano has his eyes closed, listening to the phone sitting on the grass next to him as a cold wind picks up. He can hear footsteps and his brother panting, the line just barely hanging together between their phones. He can't explain the why or how of it, but if he focuses on just the sounds sparking through the device, he can almost see- "LEFT! Dodge left!"

His brother doesn't question it and he won't wonder about it either. Feliciano just dives left around a corner and almost hits the wall with his shoulder- but he also misses the knife that cuts the air to his right. He's only on the second floor but the monster wearing Holy Rome's face is already here, the Italian tearing down the stairs so fast he almost falls again, slamming into the wall in an effort to stay upright.

The pain from his arm is crippling as his body crushes it, his vision whiting out from the extreme sensation as the ringing in his ears gets worse. Through it, somehow, Lovino's screaming punctuates the noise and the phone in his pocket vibrates with raw hate and livid Italian:

"_YOU LEAVE HIM THE FUCK __**ALONE!**__ YOU TOUCH MY LITTLE BROTHER ONE MORE TIME, BASTARD AND I SWEAR TO FUCK I'LL-"_

Holy Rome is as amused by the voice as Feliciano is empowered by it, tears blurring his sight as he runs from habit instead of relying on his own exhausted senses. The sound of the ghost's laughter is too terrifying, it resonates in all of his pains and hurts and the Italian just wants to lay down and die for real this time, to sleep so deeply that not even the devil can wake him up again. He's exhausted from fear and hounded by the twisted voice: the one asking him if he wants to see his brother, the one asking how his little Ita will like it if Feliciano gets to see Lovino again, but only until Holy Rome drags him back inside the house.

Feliciano just wants the deliverance his brother promised, but Lovino's voice is still strong, still yelling at him:

"_It's just a thousand fucking yards! You can run that in your sleep!_" He's already stumbling just trying to reach the front door- he can see it, it's just so far awa- "_Just trust me, damn it!"_ Trust. Trust is a lot like hope in this place, empty and filled with- _"DON'T FUCKING STOP RUNNING, DAMN IT!"_

He has to stop to open the door, but this time he's in control of his skid as his boots slip across the polished floor: he can brace his shoulder on the steel instead of slamming into it by accident. Feliciano's burnt hand takes the flat, bone-bristled head of the key and twists, closing his eyes as the pink fragments attached to the iron bite and puncture his hand, pushing down with all his might until his feet nearly come off the floor. He can hear the laughter, it's getting closer. He can hear the footsteps, they're coming faster.

He has to get out this time, has to, has to, has to-

Romano's sights are set on the steel door, the scope wavering in front of him as he struggles to keep it in line. He's not the best shot, but he knows that the door swings _in_ instead of out, so his brother will have to move around it before he can get through. Romano can't aim too high or too low, but damn it if it isn't a struggle to keep himself steady: he holds his breath so he can hear the noise filtering through the phone, his hands holding the rifle too tightly and causing it to waver with his nerves. At this range, a heartbeat is all it takes to send a shot flying off into the bushes.

The door swings in-

A flash of blue-

_**BANG!**_

"_Ch-Chigi!-!_"

"_Missed._" Switzerland hisses, cranking the bolt lever on his rifle back before lining up his shot again, completely ignoring the spluttering Italian laying at his feet. It was hard as all hell for the former Mercenary not to bash South Italy's head in with the butt of his rifle when he walked up, but between the snatches of conversation he can hear through the phone and the real target looming in front of him, he can ignore it for now. The robin blue band tied around his arm is reminder enough of why he's here.

One kilometre isn't an impossible shot, the door is a massive target, and the wind can be corrected for- but Switzerland swears again as he squeezes the trigger at the shadow looming just across the threshold. His shot goes wide again, striking the white brick wall instead of the felt hat he can see through the powerful lens mounted on his rifle.

"Y-you're here!" Fucking Italian.

"Talk to him before I shoot you in the ass." Reloading again, one thousand yards suddenly seems a lot further away than it should be, the lay of the land disorienting as Switzerland's eyes try to follow the figure in blue sprinting away from the bone-white facade of the mansion. Veneziano's supposed to be fast on the retreat, why is he moving so slowly?

"_Get down, aru!"_ The Swiss gunman does as the next voice says, dropping to one knee and taking the time to line up his shot properly, gloved hands cradling the weapon as he waits for a better opening.

China's just glad that someone's listening to him, his hands shaking from the rage in his belly as he balances the long RPG module on his shoulder, Korea only a beat behind him with the ammunition. The ancient nation knows to wait before launching the explosive he's carrying though, standing back a few feet behind Romano as the younger nation screams-

"_To your right! Move!"_ -in Italian.

China doesn't care: he can see someone in blue sprinting in their direction before Veneziano suddenly tears off the path to the left- his right. Romano's gun starts going off and China follows his lead: when a familiar grey beast with clawed hands and hulking shoulders rips its way out of the trees a rocket-propelled grenade is already streaking through the air to meet it.

Yao won't admit it, but the fear of seeing the beast again outweighs the satisfaction of watching it burn and disappear...

But the explosion is a bit too close and Feli's head is filled with a sharp ringing as he's flung off his feet and the fire catches on the dry grass. He didn't mean to lose his footing but as his hands rip at the dirt path a sudden pain seizes his ankle. He can't see what it is, he won't risk looking back, but he feels himself lose six inches of precious ground before another gunshot blasts somewhere in the distance.

"_Fuck yeah, Finland!_" Gilbert's voice is the last thing he hears through the phone before Feliciano realizes it's fallen from his breast pocket to the ground, but he doesn't pain relents and the tension on his leg disappears, his boots digging into the ground before he's up and stumbling forward again. He has to leave the phone behind: he won't stop for something so useless.

Romano knows exactly what's gone wrong there as soon as he hears a new voice break through his cell:

"_You will not esca-_"

_Bang!_

A shot from his pistol shows just what South Italy thinks of _that_. The words that come clearly through the radio strapped to his shoulder are much easier to take in.

"_Testing, testing-"_ Canada's voice, and the brief static that signals several others tapping into the same frequency. _"United Nations counter strike operation Time-Out. All units respond, I repeat: all units please respond."_

"_China is here, aru!"_

"_Da-ze!"_

"_Finnish Command, Svi is with me!"_ Those two are a hundred yards east of Romano's position, Finland's rifle set up between the pillars while Sweden keeps close watch over his wife, both of them wearing the blue arm-bands and helmets of the UN.

Norway doesn't reply right away, and he isn't wearing his helmet yet, but he's busy tying together the web of light Arthur is manipulating around himself and his three brothers. They aren't quite as close to the action, but every time Switzerland's gun goes off or Prussia starts trumpeting and cheering, they can hear it.

"Great Britain, all present and accounted for." Scotland states smoothly, feeling his magic open up and filter through his siblings before England and the Nordic complete the glyphs and the connection solidifies. A spark of magic lights off his fingertips as he raises his stuffed pipe to his lips, puffing a few times to draw the thick smoke into his mouth. It's rare for Ireland or Wales to let him show them what's what with their magic, but England doesn't seem to care and Scotland knows he's better at this than the others. "Lessee what we're dealing with, shall we?"

He's wrong, by the way, and realizes that once his awareness of his brothers abruptly increases through the web of magic connecting them. England is anything but dismissive about what's going on although he's standing there with his eyes closed and head down like he's about to nod off on his feet.

Deep down somewhere Scotland's half-convinced he's touched by his baby brother's anxiety. Doesn't stop him from greedily taking up as much energy as he can however, a brilliant blue glyph painting itself under his feet and disturbing the air as he closes his eyes, cutting off the sharp burning sensation he can feel bleeding out through his irii. Eyes are sensitive in their family, so he doesn't have to look around to know that his brothers are suffering from a similar irritation.

Filling his lungs with smoke from the pipe, the sickly sweet tobacco is just a medium for casting, something he prefers to use: England likes paper, Ireland has baubles, Wales has knives, Scotland likes mists and smoke. When the burning becomes strong enough and Spain shouts for South Italy to stop inching closer to the edge of the property, Scotland lets air, magic and smoke out through pursed lips in a long, sharp blow.

The magic moves like a thunderbolt in super-slow motion, scratching the air before exploding away from the four of them, leaping like a lizard out of hell and colliding with the foreign magic invading the land around them. The result is a deep boom that resonates in Scotland's chest and quickly spreads like mist off dry ice. The edge of the monster's influence is not a smooth dome, but more like a textured, dare-he-say-it fuzzy haze reaching out from its place of origin. His spell can't damage it, can't cut through or tear it open, but it can be seen now: it's real now.

Finland's gun is almost half-way through that hazy barrier, and when Sweden sees those grey fingers reaching for his wife his first and only reaction is to take the smaller Nordic by the scruff and jerk him back. For once, Tino doesn't complain about being held: his hands are numb and that was much, much too close...

Switzerland jumps back too, watching the fog spread and thin out into a faint grey haze in front of him, strings of hostile power still reaching for his rifle until he's far enough away for them to give up. It's hard to ignore Romano's swears and screams across the twisted lot for his brother, but something distracts him through the radio as Switzerland quickly twirls the nob at his belt to find a different frequency:

"_Attention, attention: you are now approaching Swiss Air Space, please identify yourselves."_ The voice belongs to an operator at the Locarno Air Base in Switzerland...

The pilot of Italia 2 holds his breath behind his mask, allowing his compatriot to speak for both of them as they cruise towards their destination. They were both briefed in private after pledging themselves to their nation and swearing secrecy: they don't know _why_ they have to hit their target, but they know that the Swiss government is a grey area for their commanders.

"_Good morning, Locarno. This is Italia 1 of the Aeronautica Militare Italiana: access code seven-seven-four-nine-" _It's a complicated code, not a simple word scribbled on a paper but a ribbon of numbers Italia 2 has taped to his wrist in case he has to read it out as well. The air falls quiet for a moment and the pilot keeps his eyes on the dials and gauges in front of him, not letting himself think as clouds and blue sky zip past him beyond the wings of the plane.

"_Italia 1 please confirm: access code seven-seven-four-nine-"_

"_Confirmed."_ Italia 2 keeps quiet, biting back the question _'Is there a problem?'_ because he doesn't want to draw anyone's attention to it. But even more than he doesn't want a problem, he doesn't want to set his hand down on the throttle in front of him, gripping the lever tightly now and just slightly beginning to push it up. The engine responds to his touch but he doesn't let the speed increase too much: he just wants to be ready.

Because even if their mission code is denied, their orders are to keep going.

"_Italia 1 please stand by."_ He pushes the throttle a little bit more, his speed beginning to climb as he clears his mind and just focuses on the machine cradling his body. It's not nice being put on hold when you're rocketing along at a moment like this. The pilot is just about ready to hear a rejection and throw his machine into over-drive when a new voice breaks into the conversation. In fact there are three voices, and Italia 2 can only assume that two of them are the radar blips suddenly screaming in from the west:

"_Locarno AFB this is Master Sergeant Alfred F. Jones United States Air Force, UN escort for Italia 1. Security code alpha-eight-nine-six-delta-"_

"_Bonjour, Locarno! This is Armée de l'Air Commandant Francois Bonnefoy, UN escort for Italia 2. Security code alpha-huit-neuf-six-"_

"_This is Lieutenant-Colonel Vash Zwingli of the Swiss Armed Forces requesting immediate close air support from UN counterstrike personnel for Operation Time-Out. I repeat, this is Lieutenant-Colonel Vash Zwingli and I need immediate close air support for Operation Time-Out."_

"_Time-Out! That's us!"_

"_Oui! The American and I shall proceed along with our Italian friends!"_ An escort? There's German chatter flooding through Italia 2's headset and he isn't exactly sure what's going on, but outside one French Mirage 2000 fighter jet slowly breaches the cloud cover and positions itself comfortably to his starboard side against the blue sky, a grey American F-16 Falcon rising up to the port side of Italia 1. The formation isn't threatening, the two new aircraft even nudge ahead a little and rise so that they're clearly leading the charge. When the Swiss operator from several minutes ago speaks again, the pilot is relieved to hear the news:

"_Italia 2 you are clear to enter Swiss airspace."_

France just lets out a sigh of relief as Switzerland intervenes on their behalf, amused by how the official repeated the name at least three times before remembering to shut off his radio in the flood of German. Vash Zwingli, hm?

"_Alright, guys, we're switching frequencies: lets get off this channel and onto something more secure."_ The only problem with international operations is the difficulties nations have speaking with humans who don't identify with them. France keeps quiet and allows America to explain why they're changing wavelengths to the Italians. The pilot of Italia 1 sounds suspicious, but a short, sharp burst of their language from Romano on the ground tells them it's alright.

But he shouldn't have to fucking babysit them like that! Swearing violently at the ground, Romano kicks twice at the grass and tries to make his arms work around the shoulder-lock Spain has him in. The Spaniard made him address the crisis in the air, but now that that's taken care of-

"_Let go!_"

"Not if you're going to pull a stupid stunt like that again!" Spain winces and drags his former dependant back several more feet, back to where Japan and Germany are standing completely still in the chaos. The other two are wearing blue helmets and armbands over their uniforms, keeping focused solely on the figure sprinting up the hill towards the edge of the property.

You'd think it would be easy: go to the house, stand on the hill, shoot the monsters and let North Italy run a stretch any of them could do in under five minutes. You'd think that between Switzerland, Finland and Russia providing covering fire, and China and Korea working with Prussia to blow the ever-loving hell out of anything big enough to catch their eye, and England with his brothers channelling their magic, it would be _easy_ to keep North Italy safe. You'd think so.

You'd think so until you saw North Italy tear along a section of the over-grown path, and then you blinked and he's back at the _bottom_ where he was ten seconds ago. You'd think so until you remember how much exhaustion and pain has worn Veneziano down so that every other step is a trip or a stumble trying to keep away from the hazards behind him. You'd think their covering fire is over-kill until the beast that just went down in flames is right back on track and the missile that you thought made a hit just collided with the ground instead.

They'd thought it would be easy, and they were wrong.

"_I'm not leaving him!_"

"No one's asking you to! But if you think crossing that line is gonna help Veneziano then you're wrong!" Because South Italy's tried jumping over twice already, and Spain won't let him do it! "_Romano!_"

"_LET GO!"_

The only thing more annoying than listening to South Italy's screaming (_tick_) is watching North Italy whip left around a fallen monster and hit the ground again in a (_tick_) heap. The next time Russia blinks, the Italian has been miraculously reset again, drawn back no (_tick_) more than five feet, but it's far enough in the wrong direction to get Ivan's fierce (_tick_) hatred stirred up again, a cold darkness dragging itself around his shoulders. England is not the only one with a brand of (_tick_) magic working in his favour.

Because the only thing worse than South Italy's (_tick_) complaining is North Italy's inability to progress, (_tick_) and the only thing worse than watching North Italy (_tick_) scramble forwards on his hands and knees (_tick_)-

Is that fucking (_tick_) _sound..._

_Tick-tock, tick-tock, _(_tick_)_ Russia's going to smash a clock!_

"China!" (_tick_) Resisting the urge to point his own gun into (_tick_) the trees and blast through (_tick_) several clips of ammun(_tick_)ition, Russia looks for his eas(_tick_)tern ally and catches Yao's attention while Korea is (_tick_) busy stuffing another long missile down (_tick_) the throat of the launcher.

_'Every (_tick_) time in every loop, that damned _(tick)_ **ticking**. I'm sick and tired of hearing it, (_tick_) it was enough to drive me-'_ Enraged (_tick_) thoughts aren't helping him communi_(tick_)cate right now, Russia lowering his (_tick_) submachine gun and pointing directly at a (_tick_) twisted oak tree standing about a (_tick_) hundred meters away from (_tick_) their position.

"Shoot it!" (_tick_)

"_Ai-ya,_ Russia! We don't have time for-" (_tick_)

"You want to argue with me, China?" (_tick_) "Right now? You want to ar(_tick_)gue?"

Augh, well if Russia wants to put it like _that_ then China can't exactly bite back. The only way he can even hear Russia's voice is through the radio feeding into the heavy-duty earmuffs on his head, Korea tapping him on the shoulder whenever he's finished loading a fresh grenade.

Gritting his teeth, the ancient nation quickly pulls the loaded RPG back around and points it in the direction Russia's focused on. It's not a difficult shot, it's borderline too close to him to be safe, but China's watched enough of his attacks fly off course or slip in and out of sync with the world to take the order lightly. If the tree dodges the shit-storm he's sending its way China vows under his breath to hack it down with his sword once this is over.

The blast from the launcher is enough to move his entire body, but the force is comfortable after years of handling and China keeps his eyes on the tail of smoke before it erupts into flame. But it's not an explosion that China hears as the ill-begotten tree is split apart by the impact, it's something else. He hears a mechanical scream and shattering glass, springs coming out of alignment and snapping in the face of excessive force.

A combination of realization and memory strikes China as soon as he recognizes the sound of a clock breaking. The fact that he's wearing earmuffs is irrelevant, he might as well have shattered it between his own hands.

"_Ai-yaaaa!"_ Stupid _Russia!_ "Ivan you can hear those things!-?"

"I told you that before!"

"_No you-!"_ Wait-! Yes he had! The Russian is giving Yao a dark and sinister look but China ignores it as a small memory, a forgotten conversation, suddenly makes sense again. "_The annex!_"

That's what they went to the annex for! That's what Russia wanted him to help figure out! The sound- the clocks! This isn't the time for it now but-

"Find the next one, aru!" Russia just nods and China is pressing a hand to the radio strapped to his shoulder, quickly speaking into the small box. "Canada! Radio America and tell him the clock is in the annex!"

"What clock?" Everyone is operating on the same general frequency, but only Canada is the one who can hear them all at the same time. Coordinating this many people keeps him out of the immediate action, but the Canadian knows his contribution can't be over-looked.

An old-fashion map, a stop-watch, a switchboard and a laptop are set up in front of him on the flatbed of the truck several Swiss soldiers are mulled around. Switzerland is holding his people back on purpose and Canada can understand it: there're enough variables in play right now, losing citizens to foul and unexplainable magic would be impossible to handle.

"_What was that sound!-?"_ Ireland's voice.

_"Do it again, damn it!"_ And England's.

"_What was that explosion? Are we looking for something?"_ Finland's question is a good one.

"Hold on, hold on... Estonia!" Drumming his fingers across the keys in front of him, Canada quickly twists the laptop around and pushes it to the Baltic crouched on the truck bed. Lithuania and Poland are already gone and setting up with more machine gun points, none of them having expected this operation to take so long. It should have been over after only a few minutes, but they've already been here for almost an hour: forty minutes exactly.

"...Something's interfering with the satellite feeds." The Baltic's blue eyes are quite cold as he stares down at the screen in front of him, his fingers rapidly punching in codes and text. "Ladonia and I can handle this." Good, because as he pulls his headset back up Canada has to focus on the dials and switches in front of him, broadcasting the ground forces:

"Maintain pressure on the enemy, but if you can afford to then shoot at anything artificial you see hiding in the landscape."

"_You mean, like, those clocks from the final loop, right? Liet and I can totally handle that!"_ That's exactly what Canada means.

"_Did the barrier shrink?"_ Prussia._ "It moved back, I swear!"_

"It's not a barrier, it's solid." England retorts, speaking both into the mouthpiece attached to his head and across the few yards to where Prussia's standing, totting another RPG module like the one China's been shooting. "If it was just a wall then we would have blasted through it by now." Even as he says the words the brothers are changing formation again, walking around one another in a diamond pattern and pulling the glyphs and images painted on the ground with them. Wales comes around to the front now, taking the offensive position on the north face of the glyph.

"Maybe we can't take it down," The middle Briton allows, sounding irritated as the magic coursing through the four of them picks up again, the teen's face growing flushed as his eyes heat up again uncomfortably. "But that blast did something, it shocked it." So now all Wales has to figure out, as the longsword between his hands begins to heat up rapidly, is where to direct all the power funnelling through the four of them. With his eyes closed he can still _see_ the solid dome of twisted influence in front of them, but more importantly he can see his brothers.

_'Arthur, what did breaking the clocks do when you were in there?'_ Eyes closed, it looks like England is standing right in front of him, a worried expression on his face that Wales isn't used to seeing.

_'It restored some of our memories and cleared up phone reception.'_ So it weakened the monster's influences, that was good- _'It also made the beast exponentially stronger, Dylan. Be careful.'_ Yeah, well-

_'Well it doesn't matter how strong it gets if we can't hit it!' _Ireland breaks in, the child clutching a knobbly cudgel in one hand and a set of dice gripped in the other, annoyed with the delay. _'I can hear a clock from here so just go already! My eyes are on fire!'_ Right, good points all around.

_'Alistair?'_

_'If you don't have the balls for the North Glyph, Dylan then why'd y'damn well take it?'_ The energy coursing through Wales' body is uncomfortably hot now, his sword beginning to thrum from the heat as he opens his eyes to see the world blurred through the red haze rippling around them. Their powers all operate in slightly different ways: Scotland is best at confusing and confounding his targets, Ireland's spells don't hurt but they make himself stronger and stronger as he keeps casting, England spreads damage equally across long distances, and Wales...

Wales pulls his sword back and up over his head, swinging with his shoulders as the grass begins to burn at his feet, his brothers each wincing behind him before the magic tears itself free and he forces the sword down through the air. A serpentine body of red scales and wide wings rips free of them and connects with the edge of the magical realm, the concentrated power writhing and screaming before it breaks through and speeds towards the target: the crumbled shell of an old building half-buried in the vegetation. The clock hidden inside explodes with the forces unleashed upon it before the monster hiding behind the wall is also torn apart for good measure.

For the first time since this began, North Italy crosses the four-hundred metre mark and actually gets to keep his progress. Up the hill, Wales is easing his hands away from the hot metal and smoking leather making up his sword, surrendering the north glyph to Ireland with a smug look on his face. The effects of the second clock breaking can be seen as the grey wall convulses and shrinks back by several feet, the static needling their radio network letting up for a few moments.

"Try now!" Estonia urges, looking up from the laptop and watching Canada close his eyes and place his hands over the earpieces on his headset, speaking firmly into the microphone:

"_America do you copy? France please respond. Italia 1-"_

A roar of static fills Italia 2's headset before it finally clears up and the sound of the control officer on the ground feeds into the background. He had to close his eyes for a moment waiting for the obnoxious sound to go away. He hears the American's voice answer the call:

"_Dude! What's going on down there?"_ The pilots can hear one another but for several minutes there the ground was dead to them, nothing but static filling the air. "_Williams? Williams answer me, damn it!"_

"_Generale Vargas this is Italia 1, please respond."_ The Italian commander is as lost as the rest of the brigade on the ground, and Italia 2 listens closely as his eyes drift down to the instruments in front of him, minding the timer and GPS panel telling him they're coming in fast on their target. Wait, that's not his actual speed, is it?

"-_Italia 2 are you there?"_ Ground control! The Italian pilot is just about to respond when the French fighter next to him speaks up instead.

"_We're ten minutes out, mon chere, what's happening?"_ Do all of these men know each other? Some kind of special ops?

"_Interference from the enemy." _The control officer doesn't specify what that means, but provides other details instead._ "The target is located in the north wing of the complex, possibly below ground level."_

"_In the annex?"_ The way the American emphasizes that is strange.

"_Yes."_ But they're approaching from the south, the annex is in the north so that means they'll have to come around in order to get a clear line of sight. "_Be careful on your approach! There is a no-fly zone directly over the property so come around wide and give yourselves space and time to bank away from the complex after firing!"_ No-fly zone? "_It's for your own protection, Italia 2, crossing over by even a few yards could cause problems"_

What the hell kind of weapon's system would do that? What the hell are they fighting down there?

"_Concentrate on the annex but don't spend your whole payload on it; we want the entire complex brought to the ground."_ Which means there is a possibility of multiple runs, alright.

"_Six minutes!"_

Italia 2 banks slowly to his right, the world beyond fading to white as the jet slices through the clouds and descends, speed dropping as the Mirage follows him, the second AMX and the F-16 pulling down to the left as they split into two teams so they can circle and approach the target together. There's no reason to argue about having an escort: only good things come from having more firepower and support than you could possibly need.

The pilot is admittedly beginning to feel a rush of excitement, a smile spreading his lips behind his mask before he frowns instead: there's static feeding into his headset again. More interference.

_You..._

"_Tell me, my friend:"_ The static isn't in the way of the French pilot's voice however, and Italia 2 listens as they continue their screaming descent; they're falling away to the east now, pulling themselves further and further off the original course so they can swing around and swoop in for a north-facing assault. "_Do you consider yourself a patriot?"_

Italia 2 finds this question amusing.

South Italy does not.

"_Norway!_" There was a time when everyone's uniforms looked different and Romano could just _look_ at someone from behind and know who they were, but now the Norwegian sorcerer looks just like every-fucking-body else in green alpine gear and robin-blue helmet, and only the faint blue light following him is any good at telling him apart from the others.

Japan and Germany both have a hand on Romano's arms, keeping him with them instead of rushing back up to where-

"_Uno, dos-"_

"_Tre!"_

"_This'll teach you to mess with Boss Spain-!"_ Romano flinches away from the heat of Spain's axe as red flames flare up around the Spaniard's legs, his long weapon wreathed in gold fire as he slams it down just at the edge of the property. Denmark's axe swings around in tandem with the passionate heat, a terrible laugh from the blond causing a frigid wind to explode out from around him. Red flame and cold air mix in an explosive wave, the mystic bond between the two nations causing the tainted grounds to roll and buckle as the blaze shoots straight down the road towards Romano's brother-

Who doesn't even _see_ the magic coming, not until it's already past him and Feliciano feels the heat cut across behind him in a wide arc. He doesn't want to know what the target was, his lungs are numb and heavy and his vision is blurring too badly for him to make out anything around him anymore. He knows not to keep falling, he knows the knife is following, but he also knows that he's in too much pain. There are too many nicks and cuts all down his back, there are too many pieces of hot metal burning his skin, there's something jammed in his arm and it hurts so much he can't even reach around to try and hold the limb together.

_Will..._

He just has to keep running. The only things he can hear are his own heavy foot-falls on the gravel and dirt of the path under his feet, and the breaths screaming through his raw lungs. Sometimes, in the distance there's a gunshot, or maybe the far-off sound of something breaking apart inside a tiny burst, but that's it. The wind is blowing and he can feel it against his sweaty face, his clothes heavy and stiff, trying to drag him down. His legs are numb and not working right, but he just has to keep running-

"Ease up, Italia 1, you're coming in too sharp." America's eyes are focused outside the cockpit window, watching the AMX below and in front of him bank hard to the right as they come around, the clouds giving way to the grey atmosphere shadowing their target. The property is almost impossible to tell apart from the forests surrounding its back end. Shit, where the hell does the no-fly zone start?

_"Amérique are you getting any strange readings?" _Strange readings..? "_Nevermind- preparing for final approach."_ Yeah, but, what did France mean by-?

_Never..._

Keep running, he can't even remember where he's trying to get to anymore, just keep running...

"Use that spell on me!" Romano shouts, ignoring the exhausted expression on Norway's face as the Nordic just stares at him, his magic book resting on his arm. He doesn't care how tired the Sorcerer looks, or how many spells he's been casting, or how many other people need him to use his magic on them, Romano just jabs one hand in his little brother's direction and shouts the command again. "Link us together, damn it! I have to help him!"

"_Repetez s'il vouz plait: Italia 1 I can't hear you."_

"_Italia 1 I said slow down!"_

"Romano, at this distance I don't know if I-"

"_JUST TRY, DAMN IT!"_ It's two-hundred-fucking-yards but Romano can't even watch anymore- if that black hat and cape get any closer to his brother, he-

"_Merd- Ground -rol! - Italia 1 my fuel gauge just-!" _ What!-? _"I can't! It-!"_

"_Abort! Abort!"_

_Just keep running..._

"What the hell's going on up there!-?" Canada looks up at the grey skies, listening for the roar of the four planes that he knows should be circling around several miles from their current position. They _should_ be on their final approach towards the mansion. "Alfred what's happening? Alfred? _Alfred answer me!_"

"_MAYDAY! MAYDAY! THIS ITALIA 1-"_

"_Good god he's on **fire!**"_

_"Eject, damn it!"_

"_ALFRED!"_

"Everyone off the ground! Scatter! MATTHEW **RUN!**"

"_ITALIA!-!_"

_...Escape._

* * *

><p><strong>Oh look, a cliffhanger.<strong>

**I'm almost positive the translations were basic and you should recognize them. **

**I couldn't decide about the numbers. **I guess it should be something like ****" 'I'm Henry the Eighth.' Said Henry VIII."****?** If you guys have an opinion one way or the other please say so in a review or a PM so I can get my head around it. **

**Also PLEASE leave a comment on how you felt about the tense/narrative change here. My goals for this weekend are: Work, Twitter Assignment and Chapter 19, so get your feedback in so I know what to do with the narrator for the closing segment of Final Loop! No feed-back means I have to spend my time writing the entire thing out using two different narrators, feedback means I know which one to use from the get go so I can end this! **

**Because that's right! One more chapter and this is OVER!**

* * *

><p><strong>Adding this now, because I discovered Tumblr thanks to my media course: YOU HOSERS ARE ALL ON TUMBLER INSTEAD OF REVIEWING I THOUGHT NOBODY LIKED THIS ENOUGH TO COMMENT BUT YOU'RE JUST COMMENTING ELSEWHERE THAT'S SO MEAN BUT I GUESS I'M OKAY WITH IT BECAUSE YAY SOCIAL NETWORKING \o**

**As for Italys-Ovaries' question: the reason why they didn't collect his body was touched on here, but basically he died out of reach across the property line and they were all too scared out of their wits to cross over and drag him back. I also wasn't explicit back in Russia's chapter, but his body was in several pieces thanks to Steve's brutal treatment.**


	18. L'Italia Chiamo, Si!

**Hero (Skillet), Merchant Prince, Ocean Princess, Invincible, The Chosen Ones, Lost in hopelessness, The Change, New Way to Bleed, Jillian, Higurashi, God of Melodicspeedmetal, Black Blade, Master of Shadows, Fire Nation, 1000 Ships of the Underworld, started with Memories and ended with Memories because this song is **_**incredible**_**.**

"Italy has called, yes!"

**Repost: April 28th, 2013**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final Loop<strong>_

L'Italia Chiamò, Si!

"_Please let me help them..."_

The voice is soft and pleading, it tugs at his heart but he just purses his lips and looks on calmly.

Down, down, down. His gaze falls steadily, watching the aerial formation break apart as one of the four jet fighters suddenly bursts into flame and loses one wing, electricity arcing around the cockpit and frying the struggling human inside. The war machine shoots across the property like a comet, leaving a smoking white tail behind as it comes roaring down on the pillars marking the edge of the evil magic.

In some ways the speed of the plane is a good thing because it moves so fast that it breaks free from the mystic influence, but it's still terrible to watch. The nations on the ground try to scramble and get out of harm's way, but with a full payload of rockets and fuel coming down on them it's a futile effort.

He can't hear the explosions, can't feel the heat of it as it ripples through the air and strips the branches off the trees, or the force as it carves an ugly back hole in the landscape, but he can see it.

"_It stole my name, grandpa... please... please let me do something..."_

He can see what kind of pain it's causing.

"_Then do something."_

* * *

><p>Keep breathing.<p>

There's nothing else he can do except keep breathing, and it's the hardest order he's ever given himself to follow. It's not even the will to live so much as it is the inability to die: he doesn't _want_ this, he just wants to let go, to slip back, to fade away and go to sleep- a sleep so deep not even the Devil will be able to wake him up again. A slumber so dark and dreamless that not even the call of God will reach him.

He can't even remember his name, how can God hope to call on him again if he doesn't even have a name?

And yet he's still _breathing_...

His eyes open slowly and even the creases of his eyelids are sore, the skin irritated and burnt from something hot and unexplained. His lashes flutter against the stones and dirt under him, damp weeds sticking to his cheek when he can't feel his arm anymore- it doesn't even hurt. His legs don't feel like they're attached, so maybe they aren't? Maybe he's breathing but all he's doing is waiting to die? To die for real this time?

But he can see the yellow dirt and the grass blowing in the wind. He can hear the whispers reaching him as the ringing in his ears dies down and he realizes that he _does_ still have his arm. He has both arms, actually, because they're attached to his shoulders and the shoulders are connected to the trunk of his breathing body. And legs? He shifts his foot inside the tight boot holding his ankle and calf and confirms it: he still has both legs.

Damn it.

_'No..._' Run. He has to run now- '_No, no please no more...'_ He has to run, he has no choice in the matter he has to- _'Let me die, please just let me die...'_ No choice-_ 'I have choice: I choose death!_'

The thought makes it hard to breathe, his lungs hurt and his eyes blink shut. Pain attacks his sinuses from inside as his ribs squeeze close before a sound- a sob, wracks his body. Instinctively he breathes in again as soon as the first sob passes, cursing the reaction that makes him prop his weight up on one shoulder, now struggling to bring his working arm around so he can brace himself on his elbow.

"Italy..." He heaves again, choking on the sour-smelling air as everything above ground-level is smoke. Something is burning- chemicals? It's not rocks and trees and grass anymore, this smells bitter and twisted, nauseating as he drops his head again and sobs at the ground.

Why the hell is he resting on his knees? It was so much easier to stay-

"Look at me, Italy..." No... No he has a choice and he refuses to answer the voice. "I loved you for so long, and yet-"

"YOU'RE NOT HIM!_" _Does he scream the words, or does he just scream? It doesn't matter: _"HE WOULD NEVER DO THIS TO ME!"_ The smoke, where is it coming from? What's going on? Where is he?

"I just want to end the pain..." Make it stop, make it stop, make the voice stop speaking... "All these memories, so many centuries spent in suffering. So much humiliation and rage; the anger, the sorrow- why do you want to be Italy?" Be what-? "Oppression, betrayal, assassination, rebellion-" S-stop! Those memories, he can't- "I've done nothing to you... that someone else hasn't done in the past..." N-No... "I just want to make it end."

Then for god's sake, just let him _die_...

He can't remember what happened, it doesn't make any sense anymore. Running was the last thing he was doing and for the life of him he doesn't know where he was going or why it was so important to get there. A voice was calling to him, but he dropped it- how? How do you drop a voice? Does that mean he just left them behind?

No. No, that can't be what happened. He can't leave anyone behind. W-Where was he running from if he knows, if he completely and undeniably accepts_, _that he can't leave if someone else has to stay behind? No. He can't do that. Who did he leave behind? What were their names? Faces? How did he know them? He left someone behind. No. He has to go back. No. He can't leave them behind. No. They have to get out together. No. They have to escape together.

No, no, no, no...

He has to go back.

He has to keep running.

But he has to _go back_.

Someone told him to keep running, no matter what; just keep running.

But he has to go back.

Someone told him _"it's not him"._

Who's not him? He can't remember who or what they were talk about.

He can't remember_ anything_...

"Italy..."

No...

"Italia..."

He doesn't...

"_Italia..."_

Make it stop...

"_Italia...?"_

This can't be real, all he can see is black smoke and grey clouds, static filtering into his ears...

_"Italia!"_

_Just make it stop..._

"_ITALIA ONE!_" Just make it stop- this- this isn't...

"_ITALIA ONE! ITALIA- SHIT! __**CANADA!**__"_

The air is filled with screaming, that's the only thing France can hear through his radio: America is swearing and screaming at the dead air.

"_Canada! Canada do you read me? Matthew say__something!" _He's getting desperate; France can hear it in his voice: "_Arthur! Yao! Antonio! Anybody!" _This isn't getting them anywhere!

"Istres this is Commandant Bonnefoy reporting one man down! Istres, Italia One has crashed! Istres- Istres?" France's radio, it- "Istres can you hear me? Please respond!" No- _no! This is not happening!_

"_Damn it!_" But it is happening, and now France has to think through the noise and flashing lights assaulting him instead of fussing with the radio. Keeping his hands on the controls in front of him, France glares down at the spiralling gauges and the mad dials screaming on the dashboard. According to his tilt meter he's banking right at almost fifty degrees, he's also only six feet above sea-level and as the Frenchman checks outside the cockpit for the second Italian fighter- he's apparently going almost over a thousand kilometers an hour. The machine holding him is in a panic, and as the alarms continue to blare at him he hears America's voice through the chaos:

"_Italia Two, return to base!"_ The French aircraft banks left and pulls up into the clouds again, cutting a wide arc through the sky as France stops paying attention to his instruments and focuses on the feel of the jet under him. The controls are out of sync but the engines are not, and except for the alarms the fighter sounds no different now than it did when they were making their approach; it's handling just fine and responds when he lowers the throttle gently. "_Italia Two that's an order! Get out of here!"_

It's a good call: get the human as far away from the danger as possible before something else goes terribly wrong. France's head is spinning just trying to separate the feel of the aircraft from the dials in front of him, and he's been flying planes for over a hundred years! If the human in the other aircraft can't-

"_No."_ Agh... The hardest part of any joint tactical operation is nations dealing with human citizens who don't identify with them. America walked right into that refusal, and France isn't surprised by the Italian pilot's response: _"With all due respect, sir."_

"_Italia Two that was not a suggestion!"_ Now is _not_ the time for this.

"Italia Two what is your status?" France asks, cutting through the argument before anyone can try bringing rank into this. America knows better than to threaten a patriot with something as simple as a court marshal for insubordination- Romano will skin him if he tries that anyways. If they survive. "Italia Two are you having technical difficulties yes or no?" Nothing shot at Italia One, there was no kind of physical attack as far as they can tell... but France is sure all three of them heard that voice scratching the static before the other plane dropped out of the sky.

The Italian pilot doesn't reply. It's not surprising. Except for that one refusal the man hasn't said a word this entire time. However...

If France hears the monster's voice come through the radio again, he knows he'll shoot the AMX down himself... If he can find it first in these damn clouds.

"Italia Two-"

_"Disengaging all non-essential flight and weapons systems."_ Damn it, there's his answer.

"_You idiot you're not in a fucking glider!"_ Jet fighters are still planes and all aircraft operate on basic principles of flight and direction, but flying dark is still- "_Do you even know where you're going without-!?"_

"Very well. Disengaging all non-essential flight and weapons systems." France repeats, finally looking at his control panel again and striking several switches, inputting commands and over-riding a series of critical protocols as he shuts off alarms and feels the jet resist his attempts to take full manual control. "Italia Two increase altitude to fifty meters above cloud cover. Maintain a five kilometer radius from that smoke column and we'll use it as a landmark." The smoke of Italia One's remains... "Are you coming or not, Alfred?"

More silence behind the static. Canada still hasn't answered them. _No one_ on the ground has answered them. And then:

"_Stay as far away as you can while still getting a clear shot."_ Canada! He sounds- _"-leave it! Wait- Francis, what the hell happened?"_

"_We should be asking you!"_

Canada suppresses a groan as France fires the question back at him, his head throbbing both from the heavy blow he took when the truck flipped, nevermind the overwhelming amount of feedback he's given up on sorting out through his headset.

It's impossible to breathe down here. The air still feels like it's burning up from the heat of the explosion and the house is completely obscured by black smoke. Something big and powerful slammed into the ground and cut a deep gouge across where their ranks had all been assembled, pieces of shrapnel warped and black still steaming a few yards away from where Canada's crouched down.

There's a bloody patch on the road under the flipped truck, showing where Estonia was trapped and crushed before he simply vanished.

"Some kind of explosion. Estonia's gone, China, Korea-" Gone, not dead, just gone. Incinerated or crushed or split into bloody chunks of bone and meat. Human bodies have died, but National Spirits still live. "Radios are trashed-"

"_It was Italia One._" Alfred explains, and Matthew holds his breath listening for the rest._ "He just panicked and hit the ground."_ It was a _plane?_ He must have been too close, damn it- "_We were barely at the edge! I don't know what the hell he was thinking but- hey! Italia Two if you don't get back to base in that death trap you're in then-"_

"_Will you just __**shut up?**__"_ Canada blinks as an Italian voice he doesn't recognize bites through the chatter. It must be Italia Two..? _"Fly with me or fly away, American, but stop acting like you're running this operation."_ Woah, he-_ "I am an officer in the Italian Air Force, I am a professional soldier and I have earned my wings! Do not tell me where or how I should fly, do not act like you can over-rule my orders, and don't you __**dare**__ act like the man who just died in front of me did so for no reason!" _Ever since they crossed into Swiss air-space it was Italia One doing all the talking, but this-

"Italia Two-"

"_This is Italia Two, Ground Control, and I am telling you that in seven minutes I am unloading everything I have into that fucking target so you either finish your extraction or watch it go up in flames!" _Err- that, what?

"_It's about time you remembered your fucking orders, damn it!"_ S-South Italy?

Romano has no idea whether or not the pilots in the air can hear him through the radio sparking at his shoulder, but he just does not fucking care. There are only two things that matter to him right now, and those are the fact that Norway looks like he's about to fucking pass out on the ground next to him, and he can't see Veneziano anymore.

"_Italy!"_

"_ITALIA!"_

"_You!_" Germany is still here and shouting into the smoke, and so is Japan, but they're too busy screaming across the burnt, smoldering ground separating them from the crumbled pillars to notice him. The half-light of the monster's barrier is still standing, that British magic flickering wildly before it begins to stabilize again. Romano actually owes the stupid Norwegian bastard for casting another spell just in time- the shield that means he's still here instead of waking up outside the fucking Tomb of the Unknown back in Rome, or worse yet standing in some ancient quarter of Naples wondering what the fuck just happened to him.

But that's about as far as his gratitude is going to take him: simple fucking acknowledgement. He gets his hands on the front of Norway's combat vest and jerks the glassy-eyed Scandinavian up to look at him, swearing to God that if Norway croaks and vanishes on him right now he'll make sure the bastard never hears the end of it. Romano has no fucking clue where England is in the chaos, so the sorcerer is his only option.

Everything that was anywhere near the edge of the property has been burnt or blasted to pieces. The pillars are nothing but charred rubble and voices are just slowly beginning to call to one another through the thick smoke. No one can see more than a few meters in any direction and Romano only knows that the strike, if that's what it was, missed the house completely. If his brother was caught in the blast then Romano sure as fuck didn't feel it, so his only option is to hope that Veneziano was just blown back by it, not killed.

But if he was blown _back_ then that means he has to run _forward_ again to make up for it, and Romano is _not losing him again!_

"Connect us! Do it right fucking now!" He shouts. "That spell you keep using on every one!" But this damn Italian has lost his mind. "_Norway!_"

For someone who, six hours ago, was in serious danger of having the entire world come marching straight through his house, Norway finds South Italy's attitude irritating at best. The Italian is asking for something Norway's not even sure is possible, and with his body feeling like it's weighed down with lead he's not exactly happy to try it.

The Legilimens spell is not his, it's England's, and Norway still doesn't know the magic nearly as well as he'd like before tangling with the forces operating around the mansion. Yes, he's used it on several other pairs already; Denmark and Spain, the four parts of the United Kingdom, Germany and Japan, Sweden and Finland... but every one of them was already on the same side of the line, and that barrier spell was not easy to throw together just now. He's exhausted...

"Open your eyes, fucking damn it, Norway!"

_'If it was Ice__land running__...'_ Norway has had that thought several times already and the effect is still the same as before. South Italy is suddenly a lot less annoying and the sorcerer finds himself using Romano's grip as a way of levering his heavy body up off the ground. His chest is numb and standing up is beyond him, but from one knee he can look down through the smoke and understand the other nation's fierce panic.

Iceland isn't here, but if he was the one lost down there then Norway would never settle for someone saying the target was too far away. It's magic, for Christ's sake, if he can't _make_ it work then what's the point of having it to begin with? It'll hurt to stress himself that far, but he's not the only one who'll suffer for it if it works...

"If he's as hurt as you say..." Norway can't even see North Italy, but the spell-book he dropped is open in front of him, his gloved fingers pressing down on the rune-scrawled pages. It's already getting hard to breathe. "The damage will transfer... You'll both feel it..."

"That's the point: I'm not the one who needs to keep running!" Now that Norway's up Romano isn't even looking at him, he's too busy staring through the clearing smoke trying to find his little brother. Norway wants to call him an idiot, but he just closes his eyes instead as he squeezes the last few ounces of power out of his system.

He can do this, he just needs to focus... just needs to feel out where he's going...

It's the same thing his target needs to know: where is he going?

He can't get up off his knees, he doesn't know where he's supposed to go. Is he even facing the right way? The ground is slanted back and it makes him feel like he's being pulled somewhere, but right in front of him is the ghost- the monster- the thing that has been doing... doing something. He can't even remember what it was that kept making him so afraid. Why was he scared? Why _is_ he scared?

Something about the ghost, about the black cape and the wide hat. The way it won't open its eyes to look at him, the way it smiles as if there's nothing wrong with the world around them. It's like a dream, some sort of twisted nightmare.

Behind the ghost there's nothing but smoke, thick plumes of black and grey all pouring into the sky and obscuring the pale daylight filtering through the clouds. What's beyond that smoke? Does he even want to know?

The creature's face, it... he knows that expression, he wants to say the smile looks lost- sad? Forlorn? Why? The knowledge doesn't bring him joy, he's not _happy _to see it there, but there's still a sense of triumph. He's not able to sympathize with that face, to look kindly on those steely black eyes when they open in a face he knows he should be able to recognize. The monster looks defeated, but he can't think of why...

"Go." The monster says, and he doesn't understand the command. "If you think you've won, then go. Run away." What? But that sounds just like- "Don't you trust what he said? Sixty-five minutes, Ita. He said that seventy minutes ago." He?

He remembers the words, but he can't remember who said them- the voice he left behind? Was that who made the promise? Five minutes ago something happened- there's smoke, rubble, heat. Something happened and now the monster is looking at him with such a defeated face, like it can barely manage to keep standing while he's sitting here on his knees feeling lost. Someone kept their promise but he can't remember _who_ or _why_ or _what_ it even was...

_'Where am I?'_ He can't remember, he can't remember _anything... 'I have... I have to keep running.'_ He doesn't remember where, but if he can trust his senses then... then he can guess. Guessing isn't good enough but it's all he's got. He's got to run away.

Trust. Trust his senses. Hope for the best. He weight shifts and he pulls his body around, turning his back on those glassy eyes and that sad smile. He turns away from the smoke and the fire and the crumbled stones.

Run away, past the trees, down the hill, run all the way to the-

_**Bang!**_

Italy hits the ground on the other end of Switzerland's scope before the blond nation forces himself into a roll, voices flaring up over him before a heavy military boot slams the burning ground right where his head was sitting a moment ago. Moving like that brings nausea and vomit up after the pain in his charred back is reawakened, but he keeps the rifle in his hands and sets up again as soon as Austria and Prussia get in the way of his attacker.

"_Germany!_"

"West, calm down!"

"_He shot him! He just shot __**Italy!**_" It was the only opening Switzerland could get and he took it, the smoke parting just long enough for him to get a clear line of sight across the bent landscape to see what the hell was going on. _"Filthy maggot I'll rip you apart with my bare hands!"_ There's no apology in him as Switzerland stares through the scope again, hands resting on the rifle trying to get another glimpse at what's going on down the hill from their position. He tries taking smaller breaths but all he can manage are shallow gasps, rough and ragged, the kind that jar the gun and send the barrel wobbling pitifully from side to side.

He listens to Germany's boots scuff the ground while Austria shows an uncharacteristic amount of strength trying to push him back. It's up to Austria and Prussia to explain while Switzerland tries to focus:

"He was going the wrong way, West! Stop!"

"If he runs back down the hill then he's lost! Calm yourself!"

Better for Italy to take a bullet in the arm than to go running off back down the hill towards the house. Switzerland can't exactly focus with the stomping and snarling next to him, but as another set of footsteps comes trampling across the charred ground at least Finland has something positive to say.

"Did you stop him?" Of course he did, but that doesn't keep Finland from dropping onto his belly next to Switzerland and setting up his rifle with a series of sharp, definite clacks. The other shooter is still speaking as he preps the gun: he can probably see how unsteady his grip is so a little bit of talk won't make a difference. Switzerland took a lot of damage when that plane came down on them, but vanishing back to Bern isn't an option when this is all happening on _his _land. "I couldn't get a shot from over there, that hat-"

That fucking _hat_.

"It keeps getting in the way." There's something down there wearing a gold-edged hat and a long black robe. Switzerland's shot it at least four times but it won't shift or go down, and the one time he's seen the face, or the profile, it almost looked like-

"_It's Holy Rome!"_ ...What? For a moment Switzerland can't remember what he was doing and he just looks up at the three nations standing over him. Germany is shouting at Austria, and Prussia has his arms hooked under his brother's shoulders holding him back, but what did he just say? "He kept calling it Holy Rome- some dead empire, so shoot him instead and leave Italy _alone_-_!_"

"That is not Holy Rome." Austria is quiet and Switzerland almost says the words instead, but then the former Empire finds his voice and speaks up. "Absolutely not!" His brother? Switzerland won't accept that kind of talk. "The Holy Roman Empire would _never-!_" Holy Rome is dead! He has nothing to do with this!

"_England!"_ Switzerland's body is burnt and in pain, his uniform sticking to his skin where it hasn't just burned away across his back. One of his legs is missing from above the knee thanks to that explosion, and he can't feel enough of the other to know what's going on with it. But he forces himself to twist in the ground and shout across the slowly calming battleground. If he were any other nation- if they were over anyone else's borders, Switzerland would have been ejected off the battlefield by his wounds and sent home to recuperate in an instant- just like China, just like Korea, just like Lithuania and Poland and maybe Hungary too. But he is Switzerland and this is Swiss territory, and he will _not_-

_Bang!_

"Kill _my_ partner, monster?" The sharp, decisive rattle of the Finnish rifle swallowing another bullet. "I'll take that hat to Sve and see what he says..."

"England I want that barrier down _now!_ Break through that fucking magic!" He is Switzerland and he has had enough of this bullshit!

"We're trying!" Scotland belts back, blue energy crackling around his legs as he lifts one hand up over his head. A cold wind comes swirling down over the patch of ground where his brothers are standing- or crouching, trying to clear away the toxic gas pooling from the crash site. Wales has his head down and both hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword to keep himself up, and Ireland is leaning heavily on England's shoulder where the youngest is braced on hands and knees. But they're all still here, and they're all still breathing, so-

"_Too slow_." Russia is disappointed with how slowly everyone is working, and not impressed at all with the four Germanic nations shouting at each other at the edge of the crater. They're saying something about a brother of theirs and Russia just isn't interested right now, swinging his pipe-sword around between his gloved hands and feeling the metal grow cold as it moves. "No more radios and little bullets, brute force is better."

Ah, everything hurts as he steps forward. Russia's careful footsteps avoid the deep scars cut into the smoking ground as the wind Scotland is manipulating is drawn into his own circle of influence. His body did not appreciate being tossed about like that, his shoulder is badly bruised and he knows there are broken bones inside his chest, but he doesn't care right now as ice forms in the air and begins to blow around him in sharp gusts.

"_Kumajiro!_" Canada is not happy either, which in a way makes Russia want to smile. The burning sensation everyone always associates with the other nation's artillery is not the result of heat, like with America's temper, but the paralysing cold that cripples the mind along with the flesh when he is truly upset. When Canada's polar bear lets loose a chilling roar and a build-up of white light and 'heat' comes screaming towards Russia from behind, the other northern power simply allows himself to be overtaken by the magic.

"_General Winter..."_ Because if you go all the way down to Absolute Zero, you encounter a pain so unimaginable it blossoms into pure pleasure. Russia wants to know what happens when you push _beyond_ that pleasure: will the monster scream if they freeze its soul instead of just that black hat and cape?

"Get up, Wales!" England shouts, forcing himself to stand upright with his shoulders back, head still down as he keeps his burning eyes on the ground. He can feel the dice in Ireland's hand flaring with brilliant green magic and doesn't have to look over at where the middle Briton is still braced on his red sword. "_I said get the hell up!_"

Wales grunts and answers the call, the sword scalding hot in his hands as Ireland yells and lets the dice fly through the air. They rattle like pig's knuckles and strike the ground with sharp bursts of power and sound, the numbers irrelevant as Wales feels the corrosive power surge through his body and wrap itself around his mind like a twisted vine.

"Follow the General!" Scotland orders, grey and blue mist spilling from his pipe and robing Wales with a mantle of cold vapour that spares him some of the fierce pain from the burning blade. "Strike where he does! _Go!_"

_'Hail Britannia-'_ The Welsh nation thinks, the roar of a golden lion filling the air behind him from his youngest brother, an earth-shattering force channelling itself into the stressed sword he'd still clutching in both hands. He opens his burning eyes and all he can see is shadows of figures- the gold shield of the Austrian and white cross of the Swiss, the red Norwegian mantel, the grey of the Russian General leading the charge into the abyss, the red and green tatters of the Italians standing one in the real world, and one beyond the edge.

The black eagle of Rome, soaring above them all?

"_Hail Britannia!"_

"_Legilime- ah...!_"

"Norway!?"

'_Ah... shit...'_

The word pain has lost all meaning for him, it's not even the change in his arm that makes him open his eyes again. He doesn't feel pain anymore, he just felt a force from behind that threw him to the ground and centred itself on an already crippled limb. He isn't alright with it but he's so far beyond being capable of responding anymore, so he just doesn't, he just lays there. But he... he was hit from behind- how? Why? The monster?

_'That's all I can do.'_ What is? There's someone here, another heart, another soul- _'I'll see you in Oslo.'_ Where..?

Are his eyes open or closed? He shifts from one to the other and sees someone with pale white hair standing in front of him, but only for a moment until the person closes his blue eyes and drops back against the darkness surrounding them. His heart stops beating- not _his_ heart, but the heart of the man who just fell. There's screaming and distress somewhere far away, someone screaming a name he can't hear, and then that sound is gone and everything is filled with only darkness.

So he changes again so he can see the dirt and the grass and the trees, but he still doesn't know where he is anymore. He doesn't even know which one is real- is one of these supposed to be a dream? A nightmare? Has he died?

_'Hey!_' The voice, the familiar voice that he left behind, the one he doesn't know- '_Over here, damn it!'_

Back to darkness, but darkness with a face he doesn't recognize but wants to know. Darkness with a voice he wants to hear keep calling to him. Green eyes under a mop of dark chestnut hair, a curl winding around the right side of a round head with a long, Roman nose. Not tall, but not thin or birdlike- firm, stiff, rigid in posture with dark hands on straight hips and heavy feet planted in black boots. Military dress, rough and cheap and durable, not pretty, doesn't have to be-

Blood running down the left arm, burns on the cheek and neck, short of breath and pale from pain.

_'Veneziano!'_ A name, whose name? _'Your name, you asshole! I told you to keep running!'_ His name? But it's not the one the monst- _'I know your fucking name, Veneziano! I'm not about to fucking forget it! Now get up and run already!'_ Run... Run where? _'HOME! We're going home, damn it!'_

H...

"_Home!"_ Romano screams the word because it hurts too much to keep silent. Hunger and exhaustion were one set of challenges, but the fresh pain ripping down his left arm is impossible to cope with. He can feel Spain's hand on his back where he's doubled over on the ground, and Denmark is cussing loudly where Norway's lifeless body is draped in his lap, but Romano can't look at either of them right now.

He was warned about the pain, but that's not what's important right now. With his eyes closed he can _see _his brother standing in the darkness, and when Veneziano opens up and looks around Romano can see right through him; the road, the trees, the smoke, the monster-

"_I said fucking run already!"_

It doesn't matter if it's a thought or a shout, because Veneziano is facing the right way again and he tears straight up the hill. The monster is _right there_ but the noise Romano can hear screaming at the barrier is working its way down the hill. Right before the knife or a hand or any kind of beast can launch itself at his brother there's a great wave of white ice and raw, natural power, and the threat is blasted away by it.

_'I can move again-?'_

_'I know you can, so move!'_

_'You did this?'_

_'GO!'_ His body isn't reacting the same way it was before, as he slams one foot down on the beaten path his knee doesn't collapse and the weakness in his hip doesn't bring him crashing to the ground. He can feel something hot running down his left arm but it's almost nice, something warm whereas the rest of him is cold in the wind. He can run again, he can pull himself through the air and push against the ground.

He hasn't been healed, but something is taking away the pain. Something is reinforcing his body and giving it back the ability to function on its own.

_'Why?'_

_'LEFT!' _Don't question it, his left foot makes contact with the ground and he swings his shoulders back to pivot, turning and letting his momentum continue to carry him back and away from the slim blade of the knife that comes streaking through the air at him. He should be scared and sobbing and crying, but he's not: he just gets his other leg in place and takes off with the next step, running without looking back again.

When another tree on the property explodes, he doesn't question the sound of a shattering clock or the grunt from the monster chasing after him. He just keeps his eyes open and charges up the hill, going as fast as he can and wondering why he can't see beyond the piles of rocks settled at the edge of the property. He has no idea where he's running to, but-

_'Just trust me, you bastard- jump!'_ Jump means dive: it's the only way he can keep moving forward with his right leg as damaged as it is. _'Fuck the technicalities just do it!'_ In the air, head tucked, shoulders hit the dirt before his back makes contact and he pulls his legs down in front of him. The roll is sloppy but complete, and he doesn't know what he was trying to dodge but- _'It didn't get you, that's all that fucking counts!'_ Right.

These directions, the cussing, the warnings...

_'We've done this before-'_

_'No we haven't!'_ Yes they have. The encouragement, the yelling, the frantic voice- _'Veneziano this is the first and only time!'_ No it isn't. _'Yes it is!'_ No, because there was a promise the first time, the promise of something in an hour that didn't come, something that was supposed to happen that didn't- _'It's fucking coming! Please for the love of God just run!'_

He doesn't know how many times this has happened already.

_'Please, please, please, little brother...!'_

But he's confident that the voice has never begged before...

"_Where's my fucking air-strike!? America!"_

_You_

"Shut up!" Too much static, America can't hear shit between that and the alarms blaring in front of him. As soon as he powers down or turns off or over-rides whatever's interfering with him, something else starts going insane on his dashboard. If he hears that whispering voice one more time, he-

_Will_

"_America where are you?"_ He's in shit but he's not about to say so to France. The more they circle around in the sky the more fuel they burn and time they lose. These planes aren't made for endurance and if they don't get their job done they're not gonna have the power left to make it back to _any_ base, let alone one in France or Italy.

"I'm right here, coming in for the final approach."

"_Roger that."_ The Italian in the other fighter hasn't popped off at him again after that first and only blow-up, but as soon as America's jet breaks through the clouds and into the pure blue sky he catches sight of the AMX diving back down. Flying a machine like this without instruments is hard as hell, one wrong move and any of them could go falling out of the sky...

As America ups the throttle and tears after the other two pilots he knows he's either gonna have to give the human hell or a medal when this is all over.

_Never_

Their radios crap out with each other until they're more than six kilometres from the mansion, but all communication dies with the ground with unless they're within three: if they're close enough to talk to the ground forces then they're way too fucking close for anything else. Even America's compass starts flipping out if he's close enough to half-make out what Canada keeps shouting through the air-ways.

Approach from the north, blast the annex. Of all the wings and rooms in that mansion, the annex is the one America hates most...

"_If something goes wrong-"_

"Don't stop for anything." Use the plane as a fucking rocket if you have to. There's a sharp cuss through the radio before France's voice fades to static, the interference coming back strong and cutting them off from one another for what ought to be the last time. They've talked their way through this and now all that's left is the final performance. America is only paying attention to the noises the engines beneath him are making, controlling the dive he enters behind the Italian pilot and just ahead of France.

_Escape._

There's a screaming whir building up in the machine. It's a bad sound and it means something's going wrong, but America's not about to pull up and fly away: he doesn't have the fuel left for another run so this is his only chance. The hero doesn't just give up and run home because the monster is screwing with him!

"_You're too low! Someone's too low!"_ The clouds rip away and it's just the dark green of the forest surrounding the mansion, the property screaming towards them as England's voice breaks through the static. The engines keep roaring and America pushes the throttle as far as it'll go without causing something to explode, his other hand struggling to hold the machine steady in the air as he feels it trying to buck and roll into the ground. He's low, he just needs to keep it steady.

Most of his screens and gauges are black to keep the interference down. No tracking, no honing, no calibration, nothing. All the three of them can do is point in the right direction and hope for the best. Good luck is not enough, but it's all they've got as the V formation they're holding has the Italian poised at the front and roaring through the air several meters above America's right wing.

"_Whoever that is, pull up, damn it!"_ The closer he can get to the target the better chance he has of actually landing a hit on the annex. Treetops shoot past the corner of his eye and the jet rips apart anything caught in its wake as it tilts just so to the starboard side. "_France- AMERICA!_"

"Sorry, England..."

_You_

"And you shut up!"

_Will_

White appears through the trees and the F-16 lurches again as a new alarm starts going before America jams his thumb over the red switch next to him. He just grits his teeth and hopes that the first three maverick missiles released from the undersides of his wings are close enough to do damage without his Head's-Up or the usual protocols guiding them. He knows he input the correct information in the air, but even the radio isn't working, so there's no way to know. Without hesitating, he fires again and feels the roar of the other two jets tearing away into the sky after launching their own payloads.

_Never_

The new alarm isn't one he can turn off, but with his hand on the side-stick at his thigh and his body strapped in tight against the raised seat, he knows he's in trouble even before the fighter reacts against him. He can smell smoke and knows the electronics are fried, pushing down on the controls as if he can pretend manual force has something to do with dog-fighting the devil.

_Escape!_

Shut up-!

_Die._

He made it once so he can-

_Die!_

Fuck off!

_DIE!_

The nose of the aircraft pitches forward and the tail comes swinging around over-top, the wings ripping away as something cold hits America's body and the air fills with the sound of shearing metal and whipping wind. Something gold streaks his eyes before the forces ripping the jet apart send him spiralling into noise and darkness.

"_England!" _Scotland turns before the gold wave has even finishes passing him, Ireland hitting the ground with his hand over his heart as the connection between the four of them is shaken by England breaking out of it.

The youngest brother has his hand in the air and the fading traces of yellow magic are wrapped around his wrist like threads of sunlight tugging him towards the sky. His entire body is shaking, and as Scotland takes a step to reach him a crippling pain brings the other to his knees with a weak cry. Mint-Bunny is screaming over England's head as he bows it against the burnt grass, energy sparking off his shoulders and back before Wales is there to tip him over onto his side.

When England opens his mouth to scream, none of them can hear it.

Scotland can't hear anything. The air is filled with the explosive noise of two fighter jets roaring straight over their heads and carving their paths across the landscape en route back to base. He can't hear England screaming, he just knows his little brother broke the connection between them so he could do something stupid without hurting the rest of them by over-extending the range and power of his own magic.

Scotland knows this, and he knows that England did it for the American who just went down in flames on the lot behind them. But he'll be damned if he knows what to make of it.

Germany can't hear anything either, just the loud, piercing cry of an eagle somewhere in the distance before the sound of too many rockets colliding with not enough brick and mortar blasts a shockwave across the property. Trees are torn up and walls are ripped down, sound and metal and light detonating against indestructible white walls and glaring florescent lights. The world goes dark without the sun and the building light of the explosives can be seen through the barred windows and the open door.

And then-

_Never_

And then everything slows down... And time begins to crawl...

_Enter_

Romano can't hear anything, but he can feel the air raging out of his lungs as he screams in the noise. He can't see the house or the soldiers or the planes or anything, just his brother. Veneziano is the only thing Romano can make heads or tails of, and what he's seeing right now is killing him.

_The_

His brother is _there_, his brother is _so close. _They can see each other, they're looking _right at each other_ and if either of them could hear it they could speak at this distance- five yards? Three? Less?

But Veneziano is not _moving_.

_Mansion._

Or he is, but suddenly it's so slowly that Romano doesn't understand how this can be real. The hair over his brother's eyes won't fall and he only has one foot on the ground, his knee up with his foot hanging over the path. His shoulders are twisted around and slanted back in mid-stride, even his wounded arm is bent so it can pump and try to keep his momentum going. But he's not _moving_ anymore-

_That_

The look in his eyes-

_Is_

The look on the monster's face, rising behind him-

_Where_

NO! He is not losing his brother again!

_I_

The fear in Veneziano's eyes doesn't recede, it just grows deeper and more self-aware as the agonizing slowness begins to reach a new extreme: one of reversal. The toes planted on the ground roll back so the ball of his foot is touching the yellow dirt, and then the flat of his boot and the base of his heel both follow. His elbows swing the wrong way and his shoulders unwind and push back through the air instead of cutting forward like before.

Like "before"?

_Wait._

It's so slow, but like the hands of a watch turning back it's too easy to see. Time is not on their side. Time is the monster's weapon- the only one it needs.

_If_

Even Veneziano knows what's going on and his mind to Romano is just a blank tone of fear. His eyes are dark and the only thing left in them is a silent plea to let him _die_ before it all begins again. One yard becomes one and a half, one and a half slowly creeps back into two-

_You_

If the monster takes him now it will mean another loop. Because every loop that ever happened was real, and in each of those realities a nation died and the world couldn't stop it. So if the monster takes him now it will mean another loop, and another loop will leave this one with a destroyed mansion- and what? A dead Italian and a vanquished monster?

_Anger_

But if the monster goes back in time to before the strike, can they really say they've killed it?

_Me,_

And in the next loop, in the next one how long will it take _that_ Romano to figure all of this out again? And when he does is he still going to make the promise that his attempt is _' the last time'_?

_You_

How many times has Romano already promised an air-strike to his brother in sixty-five minutes or less? How many times has he told his little brother _'you leave with me or you leave in a pine box!'_?

_Will_

They're fighting something that looks at the flow of time in the world and accepts or rejects events as they happen. It's something that can pluck radio waves and cellular calls out of the air by re-arranging their frequencies through time. Its influence isn't very big, but it doesn't have to be, so long as it can control the clock- the main clock, the big clock, the heart-beat ticking on and on in the trauma, then it can keep going back. It can go back again, and again, and again...

_Never_

Romano, he... he's failed? Is that what this is? He's failed and now all of it is just going to end in a haze of smoke and gunfire? He's failed his brother and there's nothing he can do, and it's all going to begin again, and it's going to take Veneziano away, _again?_

_ESCAPE!_

"Make time _wait!_"

"_ROMANO!" _Spain's hand can't catch Romano as South Italy sprints towards the line. As soon as Japan and Prussia turn to look, Germany breaks away from them and tears the final few smoking feet from where they're standing. With no alternative, the other two follow.

And all four cross Italy's line.

* * *

><p>He doesn't know what's happening, he doesn't know what they did, he doesn't know who they are, he doesn't know where he is or where he was going or why he keeps running. He doesn't know why he's so scared and he can't stop himself from crying.<p>

He just knows that he was running into the smoke and he knew something had gone wrong. He knew that something was so sadly, desperately wrong. And he knows now that he is going to die, because there is no time, because there is no way to make time wait before spiralling back and taking him away with it. Someone has made a mistake and that's all he knows.

But suddenly there are people, there are men in uniforms with guns and screams, and the one with black eyes _("Your actions have brought this upon you-__!__")_ moves so fast with the sword in his hands that he can't see where he's going, and the tall one with white hair is screaming back over his shoulder _("I'm with West, damn it!")_ at something through the smoke and distorted light. And there's an eagle's scream and a man he can't see (_"How dare you steal __**my**__ face for your games!")_ before he suddenly isn't running anymore-

"Either I take you home or I stay here with you, damn it!" His chest connects with something hard and warm and there are arms wrapped around his torso from in front, dark chestnut hair touching his skin before a hand is there to cradle the back of his head. And they're moving: they're not running but he's being moved, his legs are limp under his body and all of his weight is flung over the shoulders his arms are thrown around from the impact, and this person is moving back. The voice is right up against his neck where the other man is holding him so tight it almost hurts- but it doesn't hurt. And they're moving back- to him it's forward, they're moving in the same direction he was running.

Two yards becomes one and a half, one and a half becomes one...

"He can slow time, Veneziano, he can't stop it! _Stay with me!_"

Stay with him. Stay with him because crossing the line did something none of them can explain. It created an instant paradox: how do you jump into a pocket where time is being rewound, and now you exist where you weren't before?

It interrupts the monster's manipulation, and in the time it takes Japan to bring his sword down over the human wrist holding the knife, the blade strikes grey skin and severs off a hooked talon instead of pink fingers. Germany's fist collides with rotten red teeth and the cape and hat disappear from sight, a third cry of that black Germanic eagle cutting through the air as Prussia calls for the other two to move back; and as soon as they do a grenade bursts at the monster's feet and forces the inhuman beast to stagger back.

Does it all take minutes, or only seconds? To the two remaining pilots streaking away from the battlefield it's all over in an instant: the rockets are fired and they strike before either of them is even out of sight over the trees. The mansion is rubble before either the nation or the human responsible for the destruction even realizes that their third member is missing.

To the forces on the ground, they just can't tell. The planes are gone and their friends are across the line, but they just don't know what's going on anymore and following the few could kill the many. The ones whose hearts have stopped but their bodies will wake up again are gathered up and hurried away- Norway, Sweden, Hungary. The ones left behind try to keep the chaos from overflowing: the Netherlands knows that Canada won't stop staring at the smoke billowing from the trees where America crashed, and Spain's outraged screams have both Russia and Portugal holding him back from joining the fray on the other side.

Romano won't let go of his brother and Veneziano hasn't said a word. The older brother can't control his voice and he doesn't know what he's saying. Italian bubbles past his lips as he backs away as fast as he can from the fighting, almost tripping twice, but he keeps going. He won't stop moving towards the line and he won't stop trying to escape, because he doesn't know how long it will take. The planes are gone but the house is still standing, the explosives have detonated but the clock is still ticking. Romano doesn't know how many seconds or minutes or hours it will take for the monster to run out of time, he doesn't know, and he doesn't care.

He doesn't care about what it takes, he just wants all of this to _end..._

* * *

><p>One thousand meters away, fires bloom inside the mansion as the explosions are slowed down to a crawl. Glass panes crease and bubble before flaking away, shingles drifting from the rooftop like scattered petals.<p>

Piano wires unravel as wooden doorways splinter, white walls burning black as the first round of French explosives hits the annex, the second round flying wide and striking the west-wing bathroom and bedrooms above it. Water sprinkles from pipes as they're split open, electricity dancing between the droplets as wires are exposed and come to life in the walls. American missiles tear through the kitchen and land higher up in the library, shredding papers and ripping spines to pieces. They fill the air with black words and dower grey confetti. The clean kitchen counters hit the floor and the wooden panels break apart, peeling away like wood shavings and landing against the buckling walls.

One Italian missile finds a room on the fifth floor that rests at the end of a bloody hallway, its white walls decorated with messy numbers. Red blood and white tile mingle with the noise and the light that fills the air with change, force erasing the log and shattering all the precious trophies.

Tucked in a corner of the annex, hidden under the floor of a potential sanctuary, he doesn't want anyone to know he's down here because he knows his grandfather will be upset if he's too reckless. But he wants to be reckless, which is what makes this so hard. He would rather be outside with the wind and the shouting than down here in the dark with the explosions and fire. But the ghost with his hands pressed to the face of the clock knows it's important right now not to act out on his emotions: he has to focus on this right now, and only this.

The clock is an ornate, beautiful thing, but only in the dark, and only at first glance. The solid oak is stained a violent and garish red, the colour a result of all the blood spilled to worship it. A yellow face and weights, a pendulum decorated in silver with brass braiding all up the sides to increase the weight. Sharp black wire hands twisted in elaborate fingers symbolize seconds, hours and minutes, two smaller faces set up in the tainted backing to indicate the day of the week and month of the year.

The ghost is holding the calendar faces with his fingers, ignoring the bite and pinch of the wire hands as they struggle to slip back and take the moment and all the captured souls away with it to another time. They will stay in this week of this month of this year, and he won't let the monster wearing his clothes and using his name change that. His other hand is gripping the minute-hand of the large face, jaw locked in place as the ghost won't let the pretend pain of his fingers splitting open distract him. The second hand keeps ticking, but the hours and the minutes remain where they are: only when the second hand counts sixty does he let the minute hand move by one- holding tight to keep it from spinning out of control when he lets time inch ahead instead of tumbling back.

The wooden handle of a push-broom has been jammed up into the gears above the pendulums, and the soft pink cloth of a pair of child's underpants is stuffed up there as well, tying knots and jamming teeth. He can feel the house groan and scream as the fire strikes and the metal explodes, concrete walls giving way as brick columns list and fracture. The annex rumbles from the American explosives, but there's still one more round that hasn't come through yet.

And it's coming. Holy Rome can't destroy the monster's clock, and he can't stop the ticking, but he can still stand here and keep the magic from doing any further harm. Even when the Monster tries to hurt him, it can't: his soul is already bound to someone living, his memories are already something that have a safe place to stay. He is just a ghost, a ghost with his hands on the clock and a familiar to guide the last Italian missile through the burning annex. The missile that detonates when there is no time left, that explodes in an instant and all that's left to do is burn...

The shock-wave from the explosions knocks Romano off his feet, the ground pitching and quaking under him as he keeps his eyes shut and one arm locked around his brother. His legs kick and work them both back before his head is filled with white noise and just a little bit of pain: the Legilimens spell snaps, the monster screams, and South Italy is South Italy and his brother the North is laying limp on top of him.

And Japan is the State of Japan, and Germany is the German Federation, and Prussia doesn't care what Prussia is so long as he's more than just human again. And all five of them are standing on Swiss territory- except for the Republic of Italy, because those two are still laying on the ground as Spain quickly runs up and tries to lift North Italy up- but South Italy won't let him. So Spain takes them both, and Austria is there to help.

And Canada is sprinting across the property towards the smoke in the trees, Russia and the Netherlands both following close behind, looking for America. Ireland goes with them because it was the last thing England said before he lost consciousness, and he can feel his little brother's magic still lingering near the wreckage.

The air is filled with chatter and as he flies France can't sort through all the voices pouring into his ears from everywhere: the Swiss air force at Locarno keeps demanding updates while Istres is frantically trying to establish America's position. Istrana is repeating Italia One's call sign, resorting to his actual given name until Italia Two changes frequencies to explain. Both of them immediately request an emergency landing at the closest run-way, they don't care if it's military or civilian, they just need to land and they need to do it now.

China bursts through the radio waves and Russia can't remember the last time Poland found the nerve to shout at him and demand information, at least not in that tone of voice. Demark is there to wave the human forces over to them when a Swiss convoy arrives, and Portugal takes over coordinating everything in Canada's place.

"You're safe." Romano can't hear and isn't really aware of any of this. "You're safe." He responds just enough to get himself up onto the flat-bed of a military jeep, but his mind is blank and the only thing he can make himself do is keep his arms wrapped tight around his little brother. It's hard to blink, and harder to breathe, and he can't take his hand off the back of Veneziano's head for fear that he'll lose him again if he's not pressed close. "You're safe..."

Veneziano doesn't say anything. Veneziano's body is limp and heavy on his shoulders and chest, not moving. But he's breathing. Neither of them responds when someone in the jeep tries talking to them, and Romano almost pulls a gun on the human who reaches out to touch his brother- but he stops himself. The jeep starts moving and he thinks he hears someone shout: _"Drive until you reach the border!"_, but he's just not sure anymore. He lets the human reach for Veneziano's left arm, the one Romano doesn't want to think about, and the engine makes the tires spin and the entire vehicle lurches twice before finding the road and speeding off under the grey sky.

The smoke from the fires and the rockets and the two plane crashes mingles with the dirty clouds hanging over-head.

It's beginning to rain.

Romano isn't even sure what's happened, it like he's suddenly lost touch with the world. But, with his little brother cradled in his arms and Veneziano's head tucked under his chin, and his lungs breathing, and his heart beating...

"You're _safe..._"

_It's over..._

* * *

><p><strong>[Rolls Credits]<strong>

**Title: ****HetaOni: Final Loop**

**Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Mystery. Originally Angst. Includes Family.**

**Main Characters: N. Italy.**

**Chapters: 18.**

**Word Count: 98,234 (minus all ANs)**

**Page Count: 192 (minus all ANs)**

**OST: Memories, Utopia, Jillian, MaruKaite Chikyuu (England, France, HRE, Chibitalia, "Dark"), Higurashi Opening Theme, Desert Rose, "Dark Hetalia", Evanescence Delux CD, HetaOni OST (The God of Melodic Speedmetal, All Faith is Lost, Lost in Hopelessness, Eden, Vanity, The Decision of the Loved, Soldiers, Scorpion Fire, This is Where I Fall, etc.), Here Without You, Rest Calm, Zun Da Da, Message for the Queen, Norwegian Pirate, Get Out Alive, The Chosen Ones, Don't Mess With Me, Empty, Bad Apple English Dub, the German National Anthem, the Italian National Anthem, Hero, Never Coming Home, Merchant Prince, Ocean Princess, TSFH "Invincible" Album.**

**I give a bow to **keliathewolf **for her feedback on several pages of content, of which I think I only used one here... whee. But it was still helpful!**

**Thank you**** all for reading, and if you're interested then**** I'll see you in ****HetaOni: ****Recovery****!**


End file.
